THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Dedicated  To  My  Father, 
HENRY  JAMES  BLAND. 


Sierran  Pan  and  Other  Poems 

With  a  Christmas  Memory 


BY 
HENRY  MEADE  BLAND 

"Nulla  Dies  Sine  Linea" 


THE  PACIFIC  SHORT  STORY  CLUB 

PUBLISHERS 
SAN  JOSE,       -        .       CAL. 

PRESS  OF  EATON  &  COMPANY. 

SAN  JOSE,  CALIFORNIA. 

1922. 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  HENRY  MEADE  BLAND. 


PS 


A  WORD  ABOUT  THE  BLAND  POEMS. 


Poetry  writing  is  as  practical  as  bread-making;  and,  from  a 
high  ground,  it  is  just  as  necessary  to  the  life  of  man.  Poetry 
is  bread  for  the  spirit :  it  is  the  bread  that  is  made  of  earthly 
wheat  and  yet  is  mixed  with  some  mystic  tincture  of  the  skies. 
It  nourishes  all  the  higher  hopes  and  aspirations  of  man. 

Imagination  rules  the  world :  it  builds  homes,  it  builds  cities, 
it  builds  nations.  It  is  also  the  winged  spirit  that  builds  all 
poesy,  revealing  the  beautiful  in  the  commonplace,  voyaging  into 
the  unknown  and  giving  to  airy  nothing  a  local  habitation  and  a 
name.  It  is  imagination  that  transforms  the  ruin  into  a  shrine 
of  pilgrimage,  the  bunting  into  the  banner  of  a  people,  the 
horde  into  a  nation  of  free  men. 

And  I  commend  in  all  persons  not  only  the  reading  of  poetry, 
but  also  the  writing  thereof.  I  ask,  however,  that  all  writers 
of  verse  shall  make  a  serious  study  of  the  lyric  art,  and  become 
acquainted  at  first  hand  with  the  nobler  poetry  of  the  world. 
Poetry-writing  tends  to  keep  alive  the  idealities  of  the  spirit 
and  to  keep  us  ever  young  and  in  touch  with  the  higher  realities 
of  existence.  It  helps  to  open  the  skylight  under  the  great  stars. 

Henry  Meade  Bland  has  long  known  the  dear  delights  the 
Muses  bring  to  the  client  of  Apollo.  For  years  he  has  read 
the  great  poets,  studied  their  lyric  art,  and  has  taught  many 
groups  of  young  folk  to  know  and  love  the  poets  of  the  world ; 
and  from  the  printed  page  he  has  helped  to  make  known  the 
literary  promise  and  performance  of  the  Far  West. 

Beside  this  important  service,  he  has  turned  some  of  his 
happy  moments  into  poems ;  and  these  are  now  going  forth  in 
a  little  shallop  of  song.  Mr.  Bland  touches  various  chords  of 
poesy;  but  to  my  mind,  he  rises  to  his  height  in  poems  like 
"The  North  Wind,"  "The  End  of  Summer,"  "Sunrise  on  the 
Sierras,"  "The  Wind  Among  the  Eaves,"  and  in  some  of  his 


810932 


other  poems  where  he  touches  wild  nature.  It  is  clear  every 
where  in  these  pages  that  he  rejoices  in  the  wild  marshes,  in 
the  mountain  trails,  and  in  the  free  winds  of  our  California, 
a  land  romantic  and  beautiful. 

As  for  Mr.  Eland's  other  poems,  I  find  in  his  ballad  on  "Sir 
Henry  Hudson"  so  good  a  swing  that  I  am  surprised  that  this 
poet  has  not  given  more  attention  to  ballad  poetry.  Another 
poem  that  catches  my  eye  is  his  "Reconciliation."  This  lyric 
seems  to  have  sprung  out  of  some  piercing  personal  affliction; 
it  reaches  therefore  into  our  own  hearts.  Here  are  some  of 
the  stanzas: 

Where  lupines  bloom  and  poppies  blow 

And  poplars  tower  to  the  sky 
And  the  long  lines  of  new-sown  wheat 

Slope  down  to  where  the  marshes  lie, 

'Tis  there  beneath  the  poplar  shade, 
Watched  by  a  thousand  lupine  eyes, 

Asleep  and  alone  in  a  dim,  dim  night 
My  own,  my  matchless  Harold  lies. 

O  cruel  plover,  cry  no  more 

I,ike  moaning  tide  or  sullen  wind; 
For  all  unmeet  it  is  to  grieve 

Except  for  those  who  fare  behind. 

I  wish  this  little  volume  a  friendly  welcome.     It  is  full  of 

the  author's  genial  personality:    it  is  charged  with  his  feeling 

for  nature  and  with  the  brightness  of  his  brave  and  ardent 
spirit. 

West  New  Brighton,   N.  Y.,  Dec.,  1916. 

EDWIN  MARKHAM. 


IN  THE  HIGH  SIERRA 


SIERRAN  FAN 

I   am   fire  and  dew   and   sunshine, 

I  am  mist  on  the  foamy  wave, 
I'm  the  rippling  note  from  the  field-lark's  throat, 

I'm  the  jewel  hid  in  the  cave. 

I'm  the  lightning  flash  on  the  mountain, 
And  the  cold  rose-red   of  the  dawn, 

Fm  the  odor  of  pine  and  purple  vine, 
And  the   willowy  leap  of  the   fawn. 

I'm  the  sigh  of  the  south  wind  of  autumn, 
I'm  the  scent  of  the  earth  at  first  rain, 

I'm  the  wild  honker  call  of  the  earliest  fall, 
I'm  the  yellow  of  ripening  grain. 

I'm  the  music  no  singer  has  dreamed  of, 

I'm  joy  in  the  heart  of  man; 
I'm  the  lyric  time  of  no  poet's  rhyme, 

I'm   the  glad,   the   immortal   Pan. 


THE  DIVINE  IN  NATTJBE 

On  Shasta's  brow  the  thunder  sleeps; 
But,  with  the  lightning's  blazing  rod, 
That  burns  o'er  Lassen's  fiery  steeps, 
A  voice   comes   from  the   mountain   deeps: 
"Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God!" 

O'er  Yuba's  plain  the  North  wind  raves, 
And   withers   herb    and   blackens   sod; 
But,   in   the  wild  lake's   roaring  waves, 
Is   heard    as    from    a    thousand    caves: 
"Be    still   and   know   that   I   am   God!" 


10  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


IN  YOSEMITE 


In  Flight  Across  Oregon, 

May,  Nineteen  Twenty-one* 

I  have  read  Henry  Meade  Blond's  poem  on  Yosemite  with 
keen  interest.  It  contains  some  lines  that  have  true  beauty; 
other  lines  thtit  are  marches  of  mystic  music.  It  is  the  most 
elaborate  poem  ever  written  on  the  marvellous  valley. 

EDWIN  MARKHAM. 


Because  there  is  a  rosy  memory 

Of  stream  and  flower  and  a  face  divine 

Woven  with  high  crag  and  lilied  lea, 

I,  Inno,  Child  of  the  Dawn  and  the  White  Sunshine, 

Write  these   soft  rhymes   and  dare   to  call   them   mine. 

Now  in  sweet  fancy  am  I  again  a  boy, 

And  lose  myself  among  the  ancient  pine, 

Climbing  the  highest  cliff  in  silent  joy, 

Lorn  as  lorn  Paris  driven  by  Fate  from  song-built  Troy. 

Sweet  saintly  sister  of  the  golden  prime, 

Who  walked  the  high  Sierran  vale  with  me, 

Well  I   remember  in  that  starry  time, 

What  wonder  gleamed  from  stream  and  flower  and  tree ! 

How  sang  the  winds  in  witching  revelry, 

Glad  as  by  nature- worshiper  ever  heard! 

And  merry  was  your  happy  company, 

That  breathed  itself  in  many  a  quiet  word 

Like  the  low  lilting  song  of  some  swift  homing  bird! 

How  can   I   read  the   glacier  chronicle, 

Of  heaped  moraine,  or  rock-wall  scarred  and   seamed : 

Its  story  seems  to   fall  sardonical 

Upon  the  yearning  soul  that  once  has  dreamed 

On  labyrinthine  mind  or  once  has  deemed 

Perfection  has  been  found  within  a  face, 

And  all  the  magic  of  that  face  is  reamed 

Into  his  brain,  woven  in  immortal  grace, 

Whose  beauty  only  an  eternal  love  can  trace. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  11 

Clear  as  a  star  reflected  in  the  deep 

Of  silent  Mirror  Lake,  that  face  to  me ! 

No  breath  of  air  breaks  in  upon   the   sleep 

Of  jewelled  water,  shining  radiantly: 

Thus  in  that  quiet  lake  of  memory 

(As  in  that  silver  pool)   upon  the  star 

I  look  with  eager  wondering  eye  and  see 

The   meteor- flash   of  beauty   from   afar; 

And  fain  would  turn  the  key,  the  sacred  past  unbar. 

I  walk  in  silence  by  the  mossed  stream, 

The  ousel  sings,  the  summer  clouds  are  high, 

My  mind  runs  only  to  a  single  theme — 

A  magic  face  that  ever  flashes  nigh. 

I  gaze  the  long  prospect  to  the  tender  sky : 

Lo,  it  is  there,  and  ever  seems  to  rise. 

Then  comes  the  gray  dove's  plaintive  loving  cry 

Only  to  be  broken  by  a  sweet  surprise; — 

Through  the  dark  fir  leaves  gleam  those  eager  talking  eyes. 

Too  many  memories  ensnare  the  heart, 

And  seem  to  hold   me   from  the  days   to  be. 

Farewell,  O  time,  of  which  I  was  a  part. 

I  turn  in  rapture  unto  the   flowered  lea! 

The  joyous  thrush  is  rhyming  now  for  me, 

The  waterfall  sings  all  the  summer  hour. 

Make  me,  O  Crag,  of  thine   eternity ! 

Give  me,  O  Vale,  the  glory  of  thy  dower ! 

Touch  me,  I  pray,  with  thy  great  majesty  and  power! 

How  witching  now  to  linger  on  the  trail, 

A-list  for  the  first  night-melody  of  Pan 

Floating  afar  from  shadowy  rock  and   dale ! 

How  wild  the  revel  of  the  joyous  clan, 

Of  fairy  and  nymph,  a  merry  caravan, 

Hurrying  at  eve  from  tree  or  leafy  bower ; 

Or,  when  the  new  moon  leads  the  starry  van, 

How  tragic-deep  the  voices,  hour  by  hour, 

Boomed  by  the  thundrous  fall  in  majesty  and  power. 


12  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Perhaps  the  Master-Mind  has  subtly  given 

This,  the  great  glory  of  the  primal  world, 

Scarred  with  old  time  and  with  the  thunder  riven, 

Where  by  His  foot  the  stream  of  streams  lies  curled; 

That,  turning  thence  to  where  in  power  is  whirled 

The  wheel  by  which  He  shapes  the  soul  of  man, 

One  may  adore  the  flash  divine  unfurled 

Upon  the  brow  of  smiling  child,  or  span 

The  way  unfolding  life's  inexplicable  plan. 

Those  springs  that  sparkle  like  the  Pleiads  seven; 

Those  spires  and  towers  that  reach  unto  the  skies; 

Those  winding  trails,  like  paths  high  unto  heaven ; 

Those  winds  that  sing  the  songs  of  Paradise; 

That  storm  that  shouts  and  roars,  or  wails  and  sighs; 

Those  streams  that  leap  and  dash  and  wind  and  wind: 

That  cataract  whose  glory  never  dies! — 

Is  not  this  wonder  infinite,  and  designed 

To  be  the  emblem  eternal  of  the  Immortal  Mind! 

All  the  sweet  harmonies  of  Eden-Time 

Are  here.    The  Winds  in  summer  melody 

The  water-ousel  song;  the  rippled  rhyme 

Of  snowy  waters,  and  the  minstrelsy 

Of  immemorial  pine.     Such  harmony 

Greek  Homer  played;  on  such  a  steep  he  sang 

That  time  he  fashioned  white  and  joyously 

The  throne  of  Jove:    for,  as  his  music  rang, 

Straightway  the  temple  of  the  gods  in  glory  sprang. 

Once  on  the  trail  I  stood  while  sombre  clouds 
Loomed  threateningly  around  the  Valley  rim, 
Swaying  in  ominous,  shadowy,  angry  crowds — 
Dark  offspring  of  the  summery  seraphim, — 
Who  sang  a  deep,  titanic,  snow-born  hymn ; 
Then  came  the  thunder,  not  a  single  crash, 
But  like  the  shout  of  hosting  cherubim: 
The  day  was  night,  and  fiercely  lash  on  lash, 
Wild   dome   and   spire   signaled   many  a   fiery   flash. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  13 

There  gleams  the  rainbow  over  Vernal  Fall, 
There  glows  the  great  Nevada,  haloed  white, 
And  haughty  Half  Dome  lifts  his  granite  wall 
Where  bold  Tenaya  flashes  mystic  light. 
The  clear  Mercedes  wings  in  gentle  flight 
Where  the   Great  Fall  is  singing  evermore! 
The   Bridal   Maiden  laughs,   a  radiant  sprite. 
There  glooms  El  Capitan,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
Recounts  his  thunder-scars.     Be  silent  and  adore! 

A  hundred  thousand  years  of  mountain  bloom! — 
The  tall  Oenotheras,  the  mimulus,  the  blue 
Pentstemon,  fabric  woven  in  the  loom 
Of  April;  violets  dipped  in  sunlit  dew, 
Lilies  and  daisies  and  all  the  lightsome  crew 
Of  poppy  and  heartsease  for  which  lovers  yearn, 
New   form   their   fragrance   and  their   flashing  hue. 
Snowdrop,  Azalea,  and  the  rose  eterne, 
And  all  the  fine  embroidery  of  leaf  and  fern ! 

In  such  a  vale  beloved  Endymion 

Reclined  when  Adonais  secret-dwelt 

Within  his  bower  deep-hidden  from  the  sun; 

Where  twilight  mysteries  forever  melt 

Into  the  starlight,  and  through  the  night  are  felt 

Strange  presences  unseen.     In  such  a  vale 

The  star-crowned  Bard  of  shining  Avon  dealt 

With  Fate,  creating  ghost  or  phantom  pale 

Telling  of  love  and  war  in  many  a  sweet-sung  tale. 

The   great  Earth-Mother   carved,  long,   long  ago. 

And  fretted  these  high  crags,  and  gently  drew 

Her  finger  in  the  sand.     She  taught  the  snow 

The  way  of  the  stream.     She  hung  the  rose  with  dew. 

She  hollowed  out  the  caves,  and  tuned  anew 

The  hills  to  low  Aeolian  refrain: 

She  gave  the  sky  its  deep  eternal  blue : 

She  changed   the  snow  to  singing  summer  rain ; 

And  trailed  the  ancient  hills,  an  endless  golden  chain. 


14  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Here  lorn  Niam,  the  Oread  of  the  Wind, 

Waits  by  the  shadowy  river's  flowered  stream, 

Moaning  and  sighing  because  he  cannot  find 

Her  lover.     She  waits  where  gleam  on  radiant  gleam 

The  lightning  flashes  in  a  joy  supreme, 

Till   longing  sweet  overfills  her  eyes  of  blue, — 

Waits  the  old  tryst  upon  the  hills  of  Dream, 

Her  loved  Caolte  promised  to  renew, 

And  now  she  spreads  her  couch  in  many  a  sunlit  hue. 

And  here  star-eyed  Idalean  Venus  rose, 
Bewitching  messenger  from  gods  to  men. 
Greek  Hermes,  so  the  Attic  story  goes, 
Averred  she  was  bom  of  foam:  clear  to  his  ken 
He  saw  her  spring  fairer  than  poet's  pen 
Ever  set  forth.     He  erred.     The  magic  One, 
Sweet  Love,   leapt   from  the  glorious  rainbow  when 
The  great  Fall  was  wed  unto  the  noonday  Sun, 
Fairest  of  all  beauty  great  Poesy  has  spun. 

Here  on  a  flowery  day  came  John  o'  the  Mountain, 
And  shaped  he  many  a  fair  and  deep-hid  trail. 
He  saw  with  loving  eye  each  stream  and  fountain 
And  sought  each  golden  secret  of  the  vale; 
Until  the  white-winged  angel,  Israfale, 
Touched  him  and  beckoned,  and  gently  upward  led 
Him  over  the  Range  of  Light;  and  now  his  tale 
Is  told  in  flower  and  stream  and  sunset  red, 
And  every  tree  the  wilding  folk  have  tenanted. 

And  I,  too,  came  and  saw,  and  loved ;  and  listened 
To  the  divine  song  of  the  cataract  and  air; 
Gazed  where  the  starry  domes  in  wonder  glistened: 
Where  the  high  towering  fir  were  ever  fair; 
Dreamed  by  the  river,  watched  with  tender  care 
The  robin  build,  and  many  a  happy  hour, 
Trailed  through  the  meadow  where  the  debonair 
Sunshiny  blossoms   made  a  witching  bower, 
Fashioned  of  buttercups  the  happy  children's  dower. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  15 

All   the  long  summer   afternoon   me-seemed 

To  have  been  borne  unto  that  Aiden-Land, 

Where  sweet  the  smiling  leaves  of  lotus  dreamed. 

The  spiced  pine  soothed  with  many  a  fragrant  hand, 

The  happy  brook  laughed  over  the   silver  sand; 

Only  by  Pan's  wild  flutes  was  the  silence  broken 

While  rosy  Iris  arched  her  flashing  band. 

L,ove  drank  libations  from  his  chalice  oaken 

And  a  new  friendship  smiled  with  many  a  happy  token. 

The  rainbow   fades  upon  the  purple  hill, 

But  in  the  soul  its  glories  never  die; 

A  smile  may  pass  as  ripples  on  a  rill, 

But  in  true  hearts  its  circles  ever  lie: 

The  gold  that  passes  from  the  morning  sky, 

Is  gold  forever  in  great  Memory's  reign : 

Psyche  is  ever  a  tenant  in  love's  sigh, 

And  gentle   Baldur,   by  blind  Hoder  slain, 

Is   deathless   in   spring's   never-ending   flower-train. 


THE  CONDOR. 

He  .sits  upon  his  watch-tower, — yonder  peak,- 
And  gazes  as  the  autumn  sun  goes  down ; 
And   I,  too,  on  my   somber  hill   await 
The  sun  to  rim  the  far-off  mountain  crown. 


His  wings  are  now  aslant  as  if  to  sail 
Into  the  light  he  gazes   at  so   fond 
And  well  I  know  he  only  holds  his  flight 
Till  the  last  fire  dips  the  gulf  beyond. 

And  as  he,  when  his  golden  sun  is  gone, 
Wheels   and   is   off  upon   a   flight   unknown 
So  when  my  light  sinks  to  the  sapphire  hill 
Shall  I  my  sure  flight  wing  unto  mine  own. 


16  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  WIND  AMONG  THE  EAVES. 

Tis  the  deep  of  autumn  twilight, 
And  I  sit  beside  the   fire, 
Watching  how,  like  yearning  spirits, 
Reddening  flames  rise  high  and  higher : 
Then  I  catch  the  first  faint  singing, 
That  the  magic  twilight  weaves, 
And  sit  spell-bound  by  the  music 
Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves. 


O  that  vagrant  soulful  runeing, 
Like  a  song  that  floats  from  far 
O'er  soft  wavy  summer  waters 
That  reflect  the  evening  star! 
Is  there  ever  any  message 
That  the  heart  or  soul  receives 
Like  this  dithyrambic  haunting 
Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves? 


Druid  with   his   burning  lyre, 
Pan's  sweet  measure  on  his  flute, 
Hebrew  wrapt  in  endless  yearning, 
Poet  with  his  deathless  lute — 
All  of  these  and  more  enchanting! 
Who  is  he  that  ever  conceives 
Half  this  melody  ecstatic 
Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves? 


Chirp    of    cricket    in    the    meadow, 

Moan  of  dove  or  hum  of  bee, 

Croon  of  crane  in  mild  September, 

Voice   of   one    loved   tenderly, 

Lyric  lilt  or  epic  sorrow; 

Heart  that  triumphs,  soul  that  grieves — 

All  are  one  in  this  wild  paean 

Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves ! 


17 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  TRAIL. 
To  J.  M. 

A  spirit  that  pulses  forever, 
Like  the  fiery  heart  of  a  boy; 
A  forehead  that  lifts  to  the  sunlight, 
And  is  wreathed  forever  in  joy; 
A  muscle  that  holds  like  the  iron, 
That  binds-in   the   prisoner,   steam; 
Lo!    these  are  the  Trailman's  glory; 
Lo !    these  are  the  Trailman's  dream ! 

An  eye  that  catches  the  radiance 
That  gleams  from  mountain  and  sky; 
An  ear  that  awakes  to  the  music 
Of  the  storm  as  it  surges  on  high; 
A  sense  that  garners  the  splendor 
Of  sun,   moon  or   starry  gleam ; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream ! 

The  wild  high  climb,  o'er  the  mountain; 

The  lodge  by  the  river's  brim; 

The  glance  at  the  fierce  cloud-horses, 
As  they  plunge  o'er  the  range's  rim: 

The  juniper's  balm  for  the  nostrils, 

The  dash  in  the  whitening  stream ; 

Lo !  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory ; 

Lo !  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream  1 

The   ride  down  the  wild   river-canyon, 
Where  the  wild  oats  grow  breast-high; 
The  shout  of  the  quail  on  the  hillside; 
The  turtle  dove  flashing  by; 
An  eve  round  the  fragrant  fire, 
Where  the  eyes  of  a  comrade  beam ; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream! 


18  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  NOETH  WIND. 

I  come   from  far, 

By  the  northern  star, 

Where  the   cold  white  silence  lies  ; 

Where  the  wild  waves  war 

On  the  Yukon  bar, 

And  the  drear,  cold  icebergs  rise. 

To  the  ocean  caves 
I  roll  great  waves, 

As  I  wheel  down  the  rock  -bound  coast; 
And  the   weird  cliff  raves, 
As  the   seaman   braves 

The  angry  scream  of  my  host. 

On  the  pulsing  tide 
I  ride  and  ride, 

Till  the  mad  waves  leap  and  run; 
Nor  is  stayed  by  stride 
Till  my  legions  abide 

Mid  the  isles  of  the  tropic  sun. 

I  moan  and  wail 
In  the  tattered  sail 

Of  the  helmless  sea-worn  bark; 
And  my  wild  fierce  gale 
Leaves  never  a  trail 

Of  the  keel  I  swirl  in  the  dark. 

I  was  strong  and  young 
When  the  years  first  flung 

The   groves  of  Eden   in  bloom; 
And  the  paeans1  sung 
By  my  brazen  tongue 

Shall  chant  till  the  hour  of  doom. 


THE  POPPY. 

The   first  to  lift  its  golden  head 
After  the  autumn   shower; 
The  last  to  doff  its  summer  red, 
A  fragile,  wind-blown  flower! 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  19 

LOVE'S  PURPOSE. 

Love  brings  the  blush  into  the  fair  wild  rose; 
And  paints  the  white  upon  the  heron's  plume, 
And  flings  into  wild  dream  the  prophet's  prose ; 
And  points  the  starry  lights  in  midnight  gloom. 

Love  sends  the  gleam  into  the  infant's  eye ; 
And  makes  the  rustle  in  the  bladed  corn, 
Instills  the  sweetness  in  the  young  girl's  sigh, 
Flashes   the  red  into  the  whitening  morn. 

And  if  love  did  not  with  her  shining  wand 
Entrance  the  sea  and  earth  and  wondrous  sky, 
Chaos   would  break  his  old  restraining  bond ; 
And  earth  would  crumble  and  the  stars  would  die. 


THE  BLUE-BELL. 

You  ask,  why,  for  the  rose,  I  have  no  care, 

Why  choose   I  not  to  wear 

The  lily  fair? 

My  flower,  you  say, 

Is  dull  and  grey, 

And    common    everywhere. 

I  answer:   Tis  not  perfume  rare, 

Nor  pollen-burst,  nor  petal-glare, 

To  which  my  faith  I  truly  swear; 

But  to  this  weedy  wind-blown  tare  : 

Because,  once  in  the  garden  there, 

My  own  true  love 

A   chaplet  wove 

Of  it,  and  garlanded  her  hair." 


THE  MEADOW-LARK. 

Sweet  Pan  one  time  toiled  all  the  morning  long 
To  bring  forth  from  an  oat  a  merry  song. 
At  last  it  came  and,  on  her  willowy  bough, 
A  field  lark  caught  and  treasured  it  till  now. 


20  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  SONG  OF  JOY. 

Joy!     Joy!     Infinite  joy 
Wild  as  the  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  boy; 
Clean  as  the  soul  of  the  laughing  breeze; 
Pure  as  the  heart  of  the  dryad  trees! 

The  sky  is  mine,  the  earth  is  mine, 
The  air  and  the  sea  and  all  that  is; 
But  when  I  shall  pass  I  shall  walk  divine 
In  ways  more  starry  fair  than  this! 

I  say  I  have  lived  in  a  joyous  world 
Where  every  loving  dream  comes  true; 
With  comfort  and  plenty  around  me  curled, 
Where  every  moment  is  fresh  and  new. 

It's  great — this  life  on  the  hills  of  Time, — 
To  follow  the  gleam,  and  still  endure, 
To  strive  in  joy  for  the  High  Sublime, 
And   know   that  the   way  of  love   is   sure. 


JUNE. 

Green  of  the  earth,  blue  of  the  sky, 
Flash   of  the   stream  as   it   ripples   by! 
Bud  of  the  flower,  song  of  the  bird, — 
How  can  one  think  an  unhappy  word? 

Smile  of  the  child,  joy  of  the  youth, 
Revel  of  both  in  the  sunshine  of  Truth; 
Stir  of  the  wind  and  hum  of  the  bee, — 
Goes  it  not  all  to  the  heart  of  me? 

Faith  of  the  woman,  strength  of  the  man; 
Flash  of  the  rain,  and  the  rainbow-span ! 
Joy  is  out  in  the  world  at  play, — 
Is  it  not  good,  this  new  June  day? 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  21 

A  CHRISTMAS  MEMORY. 

(Being  reminiscent  of  a  woodsy  lodge  once  built  by  the  writer 
m  the  eastern  Sutler  county  hills,  and  of  a  certain  Christmas 
morning  when  from  this  lodge  the  entire  Northern  Sierra 
Nevada  range,  from  lowermost  foothills  to  summit,  was  white 
with  snow.) 

Well  I  remember 

How  one  winter  long  ago, 

In  sunny-skied  December, 

I  built  upon  a  green  hill,  round  and  low, 

My  pleasant  lodge  under  a  friendly  oak. 

Stroke  on  repeated  stroke 

I  drove  the  nail; 

And  placed  the  well-shaped  rail, 

Until  one  golden   set  of  sun 

My  handiwork  was  done. 

And  from  my  window  on  a  starry  Christmas  morn, 

Off  to  the  east  I  saw  as  in  a  dream 

The   first  dim   red  of  daybreak  faintly  gleam; 

Then  glow  on  softened  glow 

As  loving  kisses  come  in  dreamful  sleep, 

Or   Star-flowers  bloom  in  canyons  deep, 

Came  the  pale  twilight  over  the  far-off  snow, 

Still  prophecy  of  that  Great  Spirit-Star 

That  poured  a  mystic  wonder,  beam  on  enchanted  beam — 

Grew  to  a  flaming  stream, 

And  touched  with  glory  all  the  things  that  are. 

Then  my  wild  pulse  beat  with  an  eager  joy, 
Beat  the  fierce  music  of  a  fiery  boy; 
I  saw  the  field  as  in  a  loved   romance: 
Each   leafy   shrub   and   boulder  gray, 
And  every  grass-blade  by  the  beaten  way, 
Lent  beauty  to  each  happy  circumstance ; 
And  roundabout  dear  fancy  hung  a  golden  veil, 
Such  as  a  dreamer  weaves  into  an  olden  tale. 

Afar  the  long  Sierra  bathed  in  rosy  light 
Grew  in  splendor  to  a  pearly  white. 


22  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

High  o'er  the  snow  flashed  the  bright  Sun-Fire. 
Like  to  a  Titan  raging  in  fierce  desire 
To  foil  a  Jove  Lent  on  a  purpose  dire. 

It  covered  all  the  starry  range 

In  magic  such  as  veils  the  Seraphim, 

Or  the  rare  loveliness  of  the  Cherubim; 

And  fair  and  strange 

As  on  that  aeon-aged  morn 

When  Christ  was  born, 

Gleamed   in  my  eye   from  that  high   dazzling  rim 

The  fresh  glory,  ray  on  radiant  ray, 

Of  this  new  wonder-day. 

Then  as  I  gazed  into  the  glowing  flame 
How  seemed  it  ageless  as  that  far  sunrise 
On  hills  Judean — those  ardent  white-fired  skies 
And  quiet  winds,  stormless  and  mellow,  were  the  samr 
Embodiment  and  kindly  omen  of  the  spell 
Brought  by  the  Love   Divine  to  dwell 
In  human  hearts   forevermore, 
Like  timeless  waters  laving  an  immortal   shore. 

All  day  I  mused  among  the  conscious  trees; 

The  hum  of  winter  bees, 

Caught  in  the  coil  of  this  warm  sunny  winter  day ; 

The  rippled  brooklet  on  the  white  feldspar; 

The  friendly  talk  of  robins  from  afar; 

The  chorus  of  the  high  wild  honker  on  his:  way 

To  lakelets  reedy,  bent  on  plumy  play; 

The  many-circling  rills, 

That   sang   their   tunes   among  the   grassy  hills — 

These  were  a  music  to  my  raptured  ear 

That  even  now  I  pause  with  eager  grace  to  hear. 

And  I  can  never  be  the  same  as  I  was  wont 

Before  this  gaze 

Into  the  secret  of  the  coming  light. 

Always  the   blaze, 

Serene  and  white, 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  23 

From  out  the  great  Sun-Altar 

Lifts  in  a  vision  from  its  fiery  fount 

Whene'er   my   footsteps   falter : 

And  when  the  pulse  is  feeble  and  the  day  is  long, 

I  think  of  that  great  hour  and  I  am  strong. 

No  matter  what  the  storm  obscures  the  skies, 

For  me  this  miracle  of  glory  never  dies. 


TO  THE  MERCED  RIVER. 

What  is  thy  word,  O  child  of  the  sea, 

To  the  pilgrim  who  longs  to  wander  with  thee? 

Oh  linger  a  moment  to  take  me  along, 

That   I   too   may   learn   thy   rapturous   song! 

And  the  river  called  chidingly  sweet  unto  me, 
"Come,  lone  one,  and  follow  my  way  to  the  sea; 
For  life  is  not  rest,  but  it  flows  swift  and  strong, 
So  follow  me  now,  and  learn  my  sweet  song." 

I  love  —  how  I  love  thee  !    O  child  of  the  sea, 
So  wild,  and  so  witching,  so  loving  and  free! 
But  what  is  thy  secret,  dear  mystical  stream, 
That  ever,  for  ever,  thou  mov'st  in  a  dream? 

In  some  unborn  hour,  dear  child  of  the  sea, 
Some  fair  day  to  come,  I'll  follow  with  thee. 
A  year  and  a  day  I  wait  by  the  shore, 
And  then  I  shall  follow  thee  forever  more. 

MILDRED  BLAND. 


A  SIERRA  MORNING. 

White  and  silent  the  snow  stole  in  at  night, 
And  touched  with  the  spotless  every  fir  and  pine: 
It  softened  every  stony  gorge  and  height, 
And  crowned  the  far-off  hills  with  light  divine. 


24  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

SONG  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 

Oh,  to  hear  the  sweet,  high  piping 
Of  the  quail  that  used  to  climb 
In  the  hedge-rows  of  the  homestead 
In  the  olden  autumn  time  ! 

Oh,  to  taste  the  ripened  cluster 
Of  the  grapes  that  in  their  prime 
Climbed  the  fence  and  lined  the  arbor 
In  the  olden  autumn  time! 

And  the  honey  was  ambrosia, 
And  a  touch  of  the  sublime 
Marked  the  happy  harvest-singing 
In  the  olden  autumn  time! 

Oh  to  hear  again  the  music 
Of  the  luring  church-bell   chime 
That  came  floating  in  at  evening 
In  the  olden  autumn  time! 

Like  the  odor  of  the  blossom 
Of  the  lemon  or  the  lime 
Were  the  kisses  of  the  children 
In  the  olden  autumn  time  ! 

And  I  see  the  distant  faces 
In  a  far-off  pantomime 
Gleaming  in  the   evening  fire-light 
Of  the   olden  autumn  time! 

But  not  sighs  nor  aspirations, 
Nor  the  magic  of  dear  rhyme 
Can  bring  back  those  days  of  glory 
Olden,  golden  autumn  time  ! 


THE  LINNET. 

Of  all  the  birds  of  sunny  spring, 
Commend  me  to  the  joyous  linnet: 
Through  all  the  day  on  busy  wing 
He  builds  and  sings  for  all  that's  in  it. 


SONNETS  AND  BALLADES 


SUNRISE  OVER  THE  SIERRAS. 

I  mind  me  how  one  day-break  long  ago, 
I  heard  the  wild  swan  play  his  magic  horn; 
Heard  the  cold  north  wind  blow  his  pipe  forlorn; 
Heard  the  sweet  stream  purl  gently  to  and  fro 
In  oaten  meadows ;  while  the  lyric  flow 
Of  field-lark  hymn  called  to  the  splendid  morn 
Until  the  sun,  a  light  divine,  new-born, 
Lifted — a  wild  flash  over  the  virgin  snow. 

Then  stood  I  like  the  holy  orient  priest, 
Who  gave  unto  the  fire  a  sacred  name, 
And  ever  burned  his:  altar  in  the  East; 
Or,  like  the  rapturous  poet-king  who  came 
At  morn,  as  to  a  pentecostal  feast, 
And  saw  Jehovah  in  the  Rising  Flame ! 


MOTHER. 

Long  have  the  years  been  since  you  went  away, 
And  rough  and  tempest-torn  has  been  the  road, 
Irksome  and  heavy  been  the  cumbrous  load ; 
Many  the  lures  to  lead  my  feet  astray. 
Bitter  the  doubts  assailing  night  and  day! 
Sorrow  and  sin  have  pricked  with  many  a  goad, 
And  fiends  have  lurked  in  many  a  fair  abode, 
Lashing  me  on  when  I  was  fain  to  stay. 

But  when,  O  shining  one,  at  eventide, 
I  toss  my  bundle  by  the  kind  wayside, 
Resting  awhile  with  uplook  to  the  stars, 
Thinking  on  you,  my  paradise  unbars. 
And  then  where  e'er  I  am,  old  woes  are  o'er, 
Old  sorrows  fade  away  and  are  no  more. 


26  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

AFTER  BEADING  EDWIN  MARKHAM'S  HOE-POEM. 

Oft  have  I  paused  with  hushed  and  serious  mien 
In  this,  my  journey  through  the  vales  of  rhyme  ; 
Listened  to  many  an  ode  and  rondel  chime  ; 
Heard  the  Arcadian  Sidney  sing  serene; 
With  Wordsworth,  mused  on  many  a  sylvan  scene; 
Tarried  entranced  at  Shelley's  note  sublime  ; 
Paced  with  the  Laureate  down  the  halls  of  time; 
And  drunk  with  Keats  the  blushful  hippocrene. 

And  now  there  comes  a  cry,  a  judgment  knell, 

Unheard  since  prophet's  sorrow-cry  of  old, 

A  cry  that  warns  like  fate's  storm-swinging  bell, 

A  saga-cry  whose  echoes  will  endure 

As  the  long  ages,  peak  by  peak,  unfold  ; 

It  is  a  deathless  passion  for  the  poor. 


UNTO  THE  HILLS! 

TO   ANNIE    EMBEE. 

Today   I   wandered  in   Sierran   Woods 
With  happy  Pan.     It  was  a  magic  time; 
The  moments  were  o'erlade  with  golden  moods, 
As  if  the  day  were  set  to  lyric  rhyme  ; 
The  pines  faint  Celebean  incense  breathed, 
The  purling  river  runed  as  on  it  rolled, 
The  mountain-tops  in  shining  snow  were  wreathed, 
White  summer  clouds  loomed  skyward  fold  on  fold  : 
I  saw  the  pensive  blue-bell,  azure-pale, 
And  heard  the  lark  pipe  all  the  afternoon  ; 
I  sensed  the  sedgy-flowered  galingale, 
And,  lo,  the  South-Wind  chimed  an  olden  tune  : 
I  thought  of  you,  and  cried  in  joy  supreme  : 
"O,  friend,  come  too,  and  live  this  wonder-dream  ! 


ELM  BLOSSOMS. 

Through  the  soft  motionless  April  air 
They  drift,  noiselessly  drift 
Like  beloved  and  happy  memories 
Out  of  a  fadeless  past. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  27 


THE  WORK  COMPLETED,  1914. 

One   far-off  day,  when  gently  shall  you  fare 

On  some  oasis  of  your  chosen  way  — 

Some  vale,  perchance,  where  rest  may  bid  you  stay  — 

I  deem  that  many  faces  debonair 

Your  souls  shall  trace  with  tenderness  and  care  : 

For  every  wind  shall  sing  them;    every  ray 

Of  starry  light  shall  bear  them;    every  spray 

Of  sighing  elm  or  palm  shall  waft  them  there  : 

Then  shall  you  hear  again  the  busy  tramp 
Of  hurrying  feet  in  room  and  corridor, 
Catch  the  sweet  chapel  hymn,  or  lift  the  eyes 
To  storied  room  and  Learning's  shining  lamp, 
Conning  in  fancy  old  tasks  o'er  and  o'er; 
Then  you  shall  know  that  memory  never  dies  ! 


IN  A  SIERRA  FOREST. 

Here  elfin  songs  are  sung  forevermore, 
Waking  sweet  echoes  of  the  pipes  of  Pan. 
Here  dance  the  nymphs  to  music  sweeter  than 
The  strains  that  ever  blew  from  Lesbian  shore. 
Here,  too,  Apollo  plays  his  rhythmics  o'er 
And  shapes  a  temple  for  the  soul  of  man. 
Here  we  may  lift  our  brightening  eyes  and  scan 
The  magic  regions  never  known  before. 

Here  morn  comes  glorying  from  her  snowy  portal 
And  rims  the  mountains  with  her  fire  immortal. 
Here  noon  lilts  melodies   forever  new, 
And  burns  her  incense  over  wilds  of  blue  ; 
And  eve  with  kindnesses  that  never  fail 
Croons    gently,  and   recounts  a  lover's  tale. 


COUSIN  GEORGE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

It  does  no  good  to  stop  and  sigh, 

And  wish  you're  at  the  topmost  round  : 

One  well-made  step  is  as  fair  to  God, 

As  the  leap  you  make  of  the  peak  at  a  bound. 


28  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Prone  on  the  wellow  sands,  I  long  have  gazed 

Within  thy  book  and  then  upon  the  sea; 

And  cannot  tell  which  of  eternity 

Is  truer  emblem.     Many  the  time,  amazed, 

I  think  upon  the  starry  lights  which  blazed 

In  summer  nights  of  old;    yet  longingly 

I  turn  again,  O  mighty  bard,  to  thee 

In  rapture  o'er  the  visions  by  thee  raised. 

And  when  beside  the  glowing  winter  fire 

I  take  mine  ease  and  with  my  thought  retire; 

And  travel  by  thy  side  in  fairy  land, 

Or  touch  the  dream-lit  world  by  Hamlet  scanned; 

Then  am  I  like  some  devotee  when  shown 

A  mighty  Avatar  upon  his  throne. 


RESTTRGAM. 

(A    Shakespearean   Sonnet   on   Easter   in    Commemoration 
of  the  three-hundredth  anniversary  of  the  Great  Poet's  death.) 

I  will  arise.    My  face  I  will  uplift 

Even  as  the  gold-hued  shining  April  flowers 

Uplift  edenic  faces  to  the  rift 

Of  clouds  that  pour  down  gentle  freshening  showers! 

I  will  today  exult  even  as  a  bird 

That  threnodies  in  wonder  over  its  nest; 

I  will  exalt  me  in  the  mystic  Word 

Spoken  by  stream  and  tree;    and  I  will  rest 

In  the  white  sunshine  of  this  rapturous  day. 

No  more  shall  I  be  overlade  with  sorrow; 

No  more  be  weighted  as  with  heavy  clay; 

For  now  I  know  there  is  a  happy  morrow; 

Yea,  now  the  Light  shall  lift  me  from  this  gloom, 

And  Joy  shall  blow— a  lily  in  full  bloom! 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS      29 

NIRVANA 

All  that  sweet  April  afternoon  methought 
I  had  been  stolen  away  to  Lotus  Land; 
Dreamy  the  shadows  crossed  the  yellow  sand 
Like  pictures  by  the  strongest  fancy  wrought 
In  stories  olden  ;    or  like  freightage  brought 
Afar  from  dim  forgotten  starry  strand  — 
Freightage,   iwis,   steered  by   an  elfin   hand, 
And  sought  for  a  first  true  love  is  sought. 

From  hour  to  hour  I  saw  the  light  illume 
The  enamoured  brooklet  waves,  and  overhead 
Sighed  sweetly  the  ambrosial  locust-bloom  : 
So  faint  the  odor  from  wild  roses  shed 
That  thus  it  seemed,  in  that  sweet  Eden  Room: 
Toil  and  drear  Sorrow  evermore  had  fled! 


THE  SONNET. 

Each  line  should  be  five-petaled,  a  wild  rose  ; 

Five  accent-flowerets,   iamb's  richly  blown; 

Though  a  trochaic  oft  a  line  may  crown; 

Then,  as  the  oat  a  wavy  shadow  blows, 

An  anapest  with  radiant  ripple  glows; 

But  twine  it  third  or  fourth.    Your  rhyme  should  own 

Wordsworthian  cadence  prime,  the  which  alone 

Yields  the  strange  fruit  the  poet's  Eden  grows. 

This  was  the  garland  love-lorn  Petrach  flung 

To  gentle  Laura.     Such  the  mystic  leaf 

Rare  Milton  nurtured  in  his  paradise. 

Such  blossoms  soothed  Hugh  Stuart's  blinded  eyes; 

Such  bore  the  heavenly-flowered  spring-time  sheaf, 

The  manna  that  made  Keats  divinely  young. 


TO  DOROTHEA  J. 

But  one  there  was  who  held  a  quiet  eye 
To  beauties  of  her  own  dear  field  and  sky; 
Thought  on  the  green  below  and  blue  above, 
Until  the  whole  world  turned  in  joy  to  love. 


30  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY  THE  SACRAMENTO. 

Wild  silken  vines  enwrap  the  willow  trees, 
Swinging  their  purple  fruit  from  airy  stem. 
Wearing  superb  her  leafy  diadem, 
The  poplar  nods  to  sleepy  clover  seas. 
Frail  blossoms  drain  their  cups  for  honey-bees, 
Or  lean  to  touch  the  queenly  river's  hem, 
Which  ripples  flashing  nectar  back  to  them 
Lading  with  fragrant  balm  the  summer  breeze. 

I  move  again  within  this  realm  of  dream, 
And  pluck  once  more  the  wild  rose  by  the  stream 
Wreathing  it  verdant  in  my  memory. 
Turning  meanwhile,  Beloved,  my  soul  to  thee 
I  crown  thee  with  the  flower,  all  the  while 

Happy  as  then  within  thy  radiant  smile. 

* 

IN  CAMP  AT  TAHOE. 

Here  in  the  radiance  of  the  summer  night, 
I  find  the  secret  of  my  heart's  desire. 
There  drifts  the  incense  from  the  piney  fire ; 
Afar  the  hills  are  shimmering  with  the  light : 
The  poppies  fold  in  sleep;    but  on  the  height 
The  murmuring  cedar  is  a  shining  spire; 
Gleams  a    white   starland   nigh  and  ever  nigher 
While  Time  is  resting  from  his  hurrying  flight. 

But  hark,  that  Kildee  song!    So  wistful  sweet — 
One  of  a  thousand  lyric  voices  mete 
To  satisfy  my   strangely   ravishing   dream ! 
Now   truly  is   restored   the   magic   art 
To  sing  in  joy  my  well-beloved  theme — 
Ah,  could  you  know  the  music  in  my  heart ! ! 
* 

WHO  ? 

Attired   rose-white   she   seemeth 
As  sweet  as  the  summer  wind ; 
Or  the  lilies  fair  in  her  summery  hair 
Or  the   fadeless  rose  of  the  mind. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  31 

ELEMENTAL  BEAUTY. 

Yea,  evermore  I   feel  myself  in  love 
With  elemental  things ;    the  reddening  rose ; 
The  flowing  stream;    the  wind  that  gently  blows 
O'er  meadows  oaten;   the  note  of  mating  dove; 
The  woodland  sweet  with  blossoms  interwove; 
The    field-lark    singing   in   the   willow-close ; 
And  every  bud  that  in  the  garden  grows : 
The  star  eternal  orbed  in  blue  above! 

And  oh,  this  love  for  beauty  in  the  field, 
This  wonder-love  for  elemental  things ! 
Lo,  as  I  muse  on  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
I  am  as  one  who  stands  with  soul  revealed — 
A  lyric  bard,  who,  high-exalting,  sings, 
Unto  the  World-Heart  throbbing  deathlessly! 


NIGHT  ON  THE  MESA. 

TO  ARTHUR  AND  MARGARET  DRAKE. 

Beauty  with  all  her  witchery  is  here : 

The  cricket's  hymn,  the  warm  night-breeze's  sigh, 

The  mocking-bird  alilt  in  measure  clear, 

The  snow-white,  full-lit,  April  moon  on  high. 

Here  is  the  sage  with  dreamy  incense  deep, 
And  flowrets  fresh  from  the  Maker's  protoplast; 
Here  vernal  cactus-blooms  their  sweetness  keep, 
And  buttercups  their  golden  blossoms  cast. 

Here  is  the  starry  clime,  the  cloudless  sky, 
Ancient  Orion  and  the  Sisters  Seven: 
They  are  the  watchfires  that  never  die 
And  light  the  way  into  a  newer  heaven. 

Were  you  here  with  me  truly  I  could  but  deem, 
The  Spirit  Immortal  had  touched  us  with  a  dream. 


32  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  JOLLY  GOOD  FBIENDSHIP  IS  SETTEE  THAN  All. 
(A  Ballade) 

You  may  travel  in  China,  Luzon  or  Japan, 
Or  lodge  on  the  plains  of  the  Ultimate  West; 
You  may  lounge  at  your  ease  on  a  rich  divan, 
And  drink  of  red  wine  at  a  king's  behest, 
Then  lie  by  the  hour  in   slumbrous   rest, 
And  be  of  deep  joy  a  subservient  thrall; 
Yet  awake  with  a  feel  that  is  clearly  confessed, 
That  a  jolly  good  friendship  is  better  than  all! 


You  may  sail  from  your  home-port  a  half-a-world  span, 
And  touch  the  Sweet  Isle  with  joy  in  your  breast ; 
You  may  sing  as  you  sail,  and  shout  as  you  scan 
The  white  airy  foam-flakes  that  ride  the  fair  crest 
Of  orient  wave:    but,  truly  the  test 
Of  laughters  and  pleasures  that  come  at  a  call 
Is  fellowship  rising  in  full  easy  zest — 
A  jolly  good  friendship  is  better  than  all! 


You  may  listen  to  Melba  or  Sembrich  and  plan 

With  a  five-dollar  note  to  corner  the  best 

Of  Caruso's  high-piping;    and  be  in  the  van 

Of  those  who  would  fain  with  great  Patti  be  blest: 

But  you'll  learn  when  you  come  to  the  end  of  your  quest, 

And  find  that  the  sweetest  in  cabin  or  hall, 

No  matter  what  note  or  what  harmony  stressed, 

The  lilt  of  good  friendship  is  better  than  all! 

Envoi 

Aye,  rarer  than  any  rare  vintage  e'er  pressed 
For  banqueter  merry  or  bold  bacchanal; 
Aye,  better  than  nectar  e'er  dreamed  of  or  guessed — 
A  jolly  good  friendship  is  better  than  all. 
To   M.    I.    M. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  13 

CANIM. 
(With  a  memory  of  Jack  London,  Traveler) 

I  travel  east,  I  travel  west, 

I  loiter  where  the  skies  are  blue  ; 

And  to  my  fiery  untamed  zest 

No  land  can  be  too  strange  or  new: 

And  who  shall  bid  me  stay,  yea  who? 

When  on  my  pathway,  I  am  whirled 

For  I  am  Canim,  the  Canoe, 

And  my  trail  is  all  the  world. 

The  drear  white  silence  likes  me  best 

When  in  its  fastness  I  am  due. 

I  hurry  feverish  onward  lest 

Some  happy  isle  I  may  not  woo: 

I  tramp  the  tropic  through  and  through 

Or  sands  where  orient  seas  are  hurled 

For  I  am  Canim  the  Canoe 

And  my  trail  is  all  the  world. 

I  would  be  great  Ulysses'  guest, 

Or  keep  the  track  where  the  dread  few 

Of  traveled  mortals   fateful  rest. 

To  be  Columbus,  I  would  sue, 

And  hold  his  way;    nor  would  I  rue 

To  walk  where  Saturn's  rings  are  curled 

For  I  am  Canim  the  Canoe 

And  my  trail  is  all  the  world. 

Envoi 

And  I  hold  him  forever  true 

Whose  vanward  flag  is  never  furled,  — 

Am  I  not  Canim  the  Canoe 

And  is  my  trail  not  all  the  world? 


AFTER  READING  "THE  IRON  HEEL." 

Columbus  saw  his  new  world  stretch  away 
After  a  weary  range  of  toils  and  fears; 
This  other  sees  a-far  the  world's  new  day, 
But  only  through  a  flying  mist  of  tears, 


34 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORY. 
(A  Ballade) 

Strange  fruits  the  timeless  blossoms  bear 
In  this  far  isle  of  long  ago: — 
Perfume    of   locusts,   debonair; 
Nectar  of  roses;   lilies  of  snow; 
Poppies  of  dream  that  bud  and  blow, 
And   fade   in   fairy  ecstasy: 
And  the  leaves  of  autumn  splendor  strow 
This  garden  of  old  memory. 

Dream-petals  of  dear  loves  are  there : — 
Friendships  that  grow  and  ever  grow ; 
Faces  that  are  forever  fair — 
Faces  that  like  white  fire  glow. 
Heart's-ease  is  there,  and  rue ;    and,  oh 
The    rosemarie   drifts   dreamily, 
Mingling  with  wind-harp  music  low, 
In  this  fair  land  of  memory ! 

And,  oh  the  April  starlit  air, 
That   stirs   these   blossoms   to   and    fro! 
It  soothes  the  wrinkled  brow  of  care; 
It  cools  the  burning  fire  of  woe : 
And,   oh   sweet   waters   gently   flow, — 
Flow  to   a  summery  sunlit  sea, 
Singing  a  rhythm  none  shall  know 
Save  in  this  land  of  memory. 

Envoi 

Lovelier  than  is  the  mystic  bow 
After  an  April  shower  to  me; 
Sweeter  than  hope,  or  joy,   I  trow, 
This  garden  of  old  memory! 

December,  1916. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS      35 

IN  WAR  TIME. 
(A   Ballade) 

Loved  Shelley's  lute  is   silent  now, 
And  Byron's   song  a  memory; 
And,  where  the  willow  dips  a  bough, 
No  Devon  runes  a  melody, 
No  mellow  flute  pipes  minstrelsy. 
The  sea  moans  to  the  yellow  sand  : 
The  singer  has  heard  the  sure  decree, 
And  gone  his  way  to  Shadow-Land. 

And  where,  divine  St.  John,  art  thou, 

And  all  thy  fiery  majesty? 

Doth  the  Great  Light  about  thy  brow 

Still  shine?    Can'st  thou  yet  clearly  see 

The  wonder  of  the  days  to  be 

Upon  some  timeless  palmy  strand? 

Or  seek'st  thou,  too,  with  lamp  and  key, 

The  dreamy  way  to  Shadow-Land? 

And  may  none  tell  us  where  or  how 
Fares  the  fine  Poet-King;    or  he 
Singer  divine  who  trailed  the  prow 
Ulysses  sailed,  and  witchingly 
Recounted,  in  sweet  harmony, 
The  tale  of  sunny  island  banned 
To  mortal  foot?    Ah,  joyous,  free, 
He  also  dwells  in  Shadow-Land. 

Envoi 

Ah,  friend,  we  keep  the  muses'  vow 
Until  the  Great  Bard  lifts  a  hand 
To  beckon  gently  and  allow 
A  friendly  way  to  Shadow-Land. 


HOPE. 

Out  of  the  stillness  of  the  dreaming  soul 
Hope  breaks,  as  dawn,  from  out  the  darkened  night; 
She  is  a  star  from  God's  first  flash  of  light 
And  points  forever  to  a  joyous  goal. 


36 


THE  WIND  BLOWS  EASTWARD. 

There's  a  wind  a-blowing  eastward  with  a  glowing  happy  zest; 
And  it  sends  me  forth  a-singing  on  an  old  beloved  quest. 

For  it  tells  me  of  the  glory  of  the  ancient  sunrise  hills, 
And  I  see  myself  already  lingering  by  the  shady  rills. 

I  am  off  to  hear  the  meadow-lark  a-lilt  with  song  divine, 
And  to  catch  the  breath  of  elder,  and  the  odor  of  the  pine. 

Far  along  the  trail  I  wander  where  wild  honeysuckles  grow, 
And  I  lean  to  sense  the  riches  of  the  golden  poppy-glow. 

As  I  climb  the  hill  a  rarer  ecstasy  enchants  the  soul 

For  among  the  oaken  branches,  there  the  bluer  heavens  roll; 

And  I  pass  within  the  shadows  and  recline  upon  the  earth; 
For  to  me  the  look  at  heaven  brings  somehow  a  newer  birth. 

Then  at  night  the  stars  grow  larger  till  I  vision  them  as  suns, 
And  a  deepening  inspiration  through  my  growing  fancy  runs. 

Hour  by  hour  a  myriad  voices  speak  from  out  the  magic  dark, — 
Cricket   with  his   friendly  lilting,   glow-worm  with   his  dreamy 
spark ; 

Tree-frog  rhyming  for  the  rain-drop;  cookoo  sirening  her  mate; 
Wail  of  lorn  and  lost  coyote,  terrified,  disconsolate. 

And  my  eastward  wind  a-blowing,  runeing  o'er  my  joyous  hills 
Till  I  too  am  but  a  spirit  wandering  as  a  spirit  wills. 

Still  my  eastward  wind  a-blowing  brings  the  news  of  morning 

grace 
And  the  touches  of  day's  glory  come  like  runners  in  a  race. 

There  is  fire  upon  the  mountains,  there  is  madness  in  the  sky, 
And  great  Phosphor  slowly  lingers  last  of  all  the  host  on  high. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  37 

Now  I  look  into  the  morning  radiant  with  etheric  gold 
And  I  leap  to  follow  onward  as  its  glory  is  unrolled. 

Still  my  eastward  wind  a-blowing,  blowing  to  the  loving  hills— 
Hark,  there  is  the  song  of  wonder,  as  of  calling  meadow-rills ! 


A  REMEMBRANCE. 

Thy  voice  across  the  phantom  years 
Flows  like  a  far-off  silver  stream. 
I  pause — my  eye-lids  fill  with  tears 
And    living   seems   a   feverous   dream. 

The  old-time  simple  ways  of  men 
In  which  our  boyish  lines  were  cast — 
Oh,  what  is  now  compared  with  then, 
The  sweet,  the  unforgotten  past 


ANNIE  EMBEE. 

Sweet  Annie  Embee  lives  by  the  hill 
Where  the  purple  lupines  grow, 
Where  the  poplars  are  fragrant  by  the  rill, 
And  the  amber  grape  vines  grow. 

Sweet  Annie  Embee  has  black  eyes 
And  a  wealth  of   somber  hair; 
And,  oh,  her  words  are  soft  and  wise, 
And,  oh,  her  ways  are  fair ! 

Sweet  Annie  Embee  has  gone  to  dwell 
Down  by  the  summer  sea ; 
Down  where  the  breakers  rune  and  swell, 
And  the  sands  are  gray  on  the  lea. 

Dear  Annie  Embee,  good  and  true, 
Yours   is   a  grace   apart! — 
Yes,  I  will  fly  like  a  star  to  you, 
And  hold  you  to  my  heart! 


38  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TWO  INVOCATIONS. 

I. 

Come  dear  heart,  let  us  go  down, 
And  rest  by  the   sedgy  stream :         , 
They  are  not  kind ;  they  fret  and  frown 
Let  us  go  down  and  dream. 

Let  us  go  down,  and  rest,  and  dream 
For  the  leaves  are  dull  and  brown; 
And  we  are  hurt  with  wrinkle  and  seam, 
And  burnt  with  the  dust  of  the  town. 

Come,   dear   heart,   I   cannot  but  deem 
We  shall  find  old  love's   great  crown, 
That  your  eager  eyes  will  flash,  and  gleam: 
Come   and   let  us   go  down ! 

II. 

Come,  dear  love,  the  storms  are  gone, 
The  winds  are  lost  and  away, 
Not  a  dead  sear  leaf,  the  sign  of  grief, 
Hangs  on  the  boughs  today! 

The  chill   March  frosts,  they  are  white  no  more 

The  elm-tree  buds  are  red, 

The  meadows  gleam  with  the  rushy  stream, 

The  sky  is  blue  overhead. 

Come,  dear  love,  there  is  that  in  the  air 
That  sends  the  blood  with  a  glow; 
Come  out  with  me  to  the   flowery  lea 
And  feel  the  spring  winds  blow. 

Come,  dear  heart,  and  let  us  be  gay, 
Gay  as  the  red  butterfly. 
No  more  as  the  sea  will  our  sorrows  be, 
And  never  an  aching  sigh ! 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  39 

WAITING  AT  TWILIGHT. 

Tell  me,   O   rose, 

Will   he   be   here   tonight? 

How  slow  the  time  goes! 

Tell  me,  O   rose, 

Some   happy  wind  blows 

His   white   sail  aright! 

Tell  me,  O  rose, 

Will  he  be  here  tonight? 


FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

Look  in  my  heart,  dear  friend, 
Your  name   is  graven  there 
In   love   without  an   end. 
Look  in  my  heart,  dear  friend, 
And  know,  in  love  I  transcend 
All  that  is  good  and  fair. 
Look  in  my  heart,  dear  friend, 
Your  name  is  graven  there! 


THE  GIFT. 

She  gave  me  a  thorn, 
When  I  wanted  a  rose: 
I  can't  think  it  scorn  — 
She  gave  me  a  thorn  ! 
No,  I'm  not  quite  forlorn  ! 
Why!    do  you  suppose, 
She  gave  me  a  thorn, 
When    I  wanted   a   rose? 

(To  R.  B.) 
-  *  - 

LUPINES  ON  MOUNT  HAMILTON. 

Where  wrinkled,  gray,  white-domed  Mount  Hamilton 
Lifts  to  the  sky  and  yearns  to  reach  the  sun, 
There  too  a  thousand  Purple  Lupine  eyes 
Dream  in  the  purple  of  the  summer  skies. 


40  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  VOICES. 

The  voice  of  Morning  is  a  wild  and  joyous  song 

That  sends  the  blood  a-pulsing  onward  swift  and  strong; 

And  that  of  Noon  a  long  and  lordly  bugle-roll 

That  winds  an  old  and  strange  enchantment  in  the  soul; 

The  voice  of  Eve  is  but  a  tender  mother  croon 
That  fails,  and  fades  away  in  sunset  all  too  soon ! 


LIVING. 

Life  you  tell  me  is  a  great  adventure 

With  many  chances ; 

A  game  mercilessly  played 

In   which   you   win   or   lose. 

Your  luck  today  may  be  health,  wealth  or  fame; 

Tomorrow ;    sorrow,    failure, 

And  then  the  Mysterious  Silence; 

The   fates;  move   on   without   you. 

And  yet  I  remember : 

"He  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of  righteousness 

For  His  name's  sake !" 


THOUGHTS. 

These,  are  my  flowers, 

The  flowers   lovers   love. 

I  found  them  in  the  meadows  where  the  stream 

Sings  of  white  April ;    and  the  mossed  woods 

Sigh  in  the  year's  first  mellow  fragrant  air. 

Touch  them  gently: 

They  vanish  at  a  breath : 

They   are   my    soul. 

When  they  are  old  will  yon  not  keep 

Some  of  their  queer  and  crumpled  petals 

In  the  sacred  book  of  memory. 


CAMPUS  AND  QUADRANGLE 


INSPIRATION'S  GUT. 

No  silver  or  gold  I  bring  you; 

No  gem  from  a  Tyrian  mine: 
Not  with  fire  or  light  I  wing  you, 

Nor  with  gift  of  the  prophet  divine. 

No  wine  of  the  gods  I  pour  you, 
That  reward  for  a  great  emprise, 

But  this  my  boon  is  before  you — 
A  longing  that  never  dies! 


LINCOLN. 

Man   of  stern   destiny  and  greatening  time, 
He  was  the  conscript  of  a  cause  sublime; 
He  knew  the  burning  duty  of  his  hour, 
Linked  to  himself  a  sovereign  righteous  power, 
Faced  ancient  error  with  a  sword  of  flame, 
And  gave  eternal  truth  a  brighter  name : 
He  burst  a  servile  people's  prison  bars, 
And  gave  the  Nation  uplook  to  the  stars. 
Hail,  leader  of  heroic   freemen,  hail ! 
When  shall  the  sunlight  of  thy  glory  fail? 
Not  while  the  earnest  eyes  of  strong  youth  gleam, 
Not  while  the  soul  of  man  is  touched  with  dream. 


KINDNESS. 

Would'st  thou  be  kind?    delay  not  till  the  morrow; 
For  he  who  waits  for  kindness  waits  in  sororw. 


42  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

COLUMBUS. 

Dauntless  he  sailed  upon  his  magic  quest 
That  linked  the  golden  East  and  mighty  West. 
No  monster  of  the  deep  had  terror  for  him; 
He  sailed  as  guided  by  the  seraphim. 

The  silent  stars  might  pale  and  change  ;   but  he 
Held  the  great  course  across  the  trackless  sea. 
What  largess  unto  man  that  starry  night 
When  the  great  vision  broke  upon  his  sight! 

What  smile  benign  the  sun  cast  o'er  the  world 
When  that  first  sail  was  gently,  safely  furled  ! 
Boldest  of  sailors  since  the  world  began, 
He  brought  the  vast  and  precious  gift  to  man  — 

The  land  where  everyone  can  earn  a  share; 
Where  every  home  has  plenty  and  to  spare  ; 
Where  man  may  think  anew  the  spirit-theme, 
May  build  again  a  happy  Eden  Dream. 
Oct.    12,    1918. 


MEMORY. 

Our  white-winged  ship  is  sailing,  sailing, 
Into  the  mild   sea-calm  of  the  past; 
And  the  twilight  stars  are  flashing,  paling, 
And  the  oars  of  memory  sweetly  trailing 
Into  the  mist-blown  vast. 

By  how  many  magic  isles  do  we  wander 
Back  on  this  unforgotten  sea? 
By  how  many  shores  do  we  wait  and  ponder? 
And  still  the  old  faces  grow  fonder,  fonder  — 
The   faces  that  used  to  be. 

O  ship,  may  you  ever  be  ready  for  sailing 
Again  to  this  mystical  marvellous  foam; 
For  the  odorous  winds,  they  will  blow  —  never  failing- 
And  the  old  and  the  good  will  prove  all-availing 
To   anchor   you   safely  home. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  43 

TO  MY  STUDENTS. 

Though  you  go  and  come  like  the  tide 
That  runs  on  the  rocky  shore, 
Though  you  loiter  but  for  a  moment 
And  vanish   forevermore; 
Yet  the  rocks  of  the  grim  old  sea-coast 
You  mould,  and  you  soften  and  whirl 
Till,  clear  and  white  on  the  wave-line, 
Lie  the  drifts  of  memory-pearl. 
And  the  broken  cliffs  of  endeavor 
You  heal  with  the  mild  sea-cove ; 
And  the  gray  bleak  crags  of  the  headland 
You  dash  with  the  snow-surf  of  love. 
And  thus  in  and  out   forever 
You   sweep  and  eddy  in   glee 
Till  the  rough  old  granite  boulder 
Is  deep  in  the  calm  of  the  sea. 


INDEPENDENCE. 

I  am  good  luck:    I  owe  no  sway 
To   star  or   time  or  tide. 
I  make  the  good  things  come  my  way 
I  hurl  the  bad  aside. 


STEADFAST. 

We   do  not  know  to   what  bright   evening   star 
Our   souls   shall   sometime   stray; 
But  we  can  hold  a  happy  look  afar 
And  travel   on  our   way. 

Perhaps  the  island-girt  Aldebaran 
Will  be  that  restful  sphere; 
Perhaps  Eternal  Wisdom's  better  plan 
Will   make   our   heaven   here. 


FOR  A  PUBLIC  SCHOOL  BLACKBOARD. 

What  is  the  way  to  Manhood  Town? 
Never  a  cry  and  never  a  frown; 
Never  a  thought  that's  dull  or  brown; 
Never  a  word  to  admit  one's  dawn; 
And  this  is  the  way  to  Manhood  Town. 

What  is  the  way  to  Womanly  Grace 

A  hand  that  keeps  things  well  in  place; 

A  smile  of  joy  to  lighten  the  face; 

With  a  touch  of  kindness  that  grows  apace ; 

And  this  is  the  way  to  Womanly  Grace. 


AT  GRADUATION. 

We  have  shared  in  your  toil  and  your  pleasure, 
We  have  mused;    and  have  counted  the  gain; 
And  the  tent  of  our  youth  has  been  changed,  till  in  truth, 
'Tis  a   wonderful   castle  in  Spain. 

We  have  loitered  at  luncheon  and  banquet 

Found  the  bread  of  our  friendship  divine; 

And  the  jests  we  have  flung,  and  the  songs  we  have  sung  !- 

We  have  laid  them  at  Memory's  shrine. 

Was  there  ever  a  hateful  thought  harbored; 

Or  base  word  we  whisper  or  plot, 

That  we  would  not  now  fling  with  its  venom  and  sting 

To  the  land  of  the  dead  and  forgot? 

We  have  touched  the  wild  pulse  of  existence ; 
We  have  wrought,  and  aspired,  and  schemed ; 
And  the  music  and  rhyme  of  the  ripples  of  time 
Have  made  the  world  all  that  we  dreamed. 

Yet  this  is  what  it  will  come  to : 
To  be  in  the  game  of  life  still; 
While  the  brain-pulses  last,   to  play  hard  and   fast, 
And  then  go  to  rest  with  a  will. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS      45 

THE  TBUCE. 

Work  and  I  are  at  peace  tonight: 
He  is  persuaded  to  stop  the  fight. 

I  am  quite  willing  to  let  him  rest, 
Assuming  that  I  have  done  my  best. 

So  I've  bowed  him  out  and  shut  the  door 
And  bade  him  wait  to  settle  the  score. 

I   take  my  ease  before  the  fire, 
And  prop  my  feet  a  full  foot  higher. 

And  then  in  dream  I  walk  in  truth 
Down  the  happy  path  of  a  merry  youth: 

For  a  movie-film  is  the  brain  of  man 
And  the  soul  is  a  strange  little  movie  fan. 

I  whistle  my  dog  and  he  wiggles  in  glee 
As  we  trudge  along  the  meadowy  lea. 
I  listen  entranced  to  a  sand-crane  croon; 
And  hear  the  great  honkers  rune  and  rune : 
For  a  movie-film  is  the  brain  of  man 
And  the  soul  is  a  strange  little  movie  fan. 

I  walk  in  joy  in  the  summery  hills 

And  hook  fat  trout  from  the  shady  rills: 

But  Work  peeps  in  through  the  window-pane, 
And  wonders  why  I'm  not  at  it  again; 
And  says,  "Where  is  that  Shakespeare  book 
Whereon  you  silently  look  and  look?" 

But  I  play  under  a  great-oak  tree, 
And  sweet  little  Mamie  plays  with  me; 
And  birds  are  nymphs  that  sing  in  the  sun, 
And  butterflies  oreads  all  and  one : 

For  a  movie  film  is  the  brain  of  man, 
And  the  soul  is  a  strange  little  movie  fan. 

And  so  my  three-hour  truce  goes  by 
Till  the   logs   in  my  fire  ashes   lie; 

But  I'll  face  friend  Work  in  the  morn,  I  know, 
Far  better  because  of  my  movie-show. 


46  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

HERMOD'S  BIDE  ON  SLEPNIR, 

("And   Hermod,    Odin's   son,   mounted   Slepnir,   the  spirit- 
horse,  and  rode  afar  into  Darkness  after  Baldur.") 

I  rode  to  the  blaze  of  the  dawn 
Where   the   sun's   white   furnaces  glow, 
Where  the  morning  star  swings  swift  and  far 
And  the  blazing  comets  go; 

On  the  past  the  lights  of  Orion 
Through  the  Great  Bear's  fiery  zone, 
Where  chaos  rides  by  the  cosmic  tides 
And  night  reigns  dread  and  lone: 

Into   abysmal    darkness 

With   eyes   far-flashing   and   red, 

Like  a  sun  we  came  in  a  pillar  of  flame 

To  the  empire  of  the  Dead, 

To   the   side   of  the  gentle   Baldur 
Who  slumbered  calm  and  deep, 
Weird  as  a  ghost  on  a  wild  sea  coast, 
Locked  in  eternal  sleep. 


TO  THE  FIGHTER. 

Here's  to  the  man  who's  fierce  in  the  fight; 
Who  pins  his  faith  to  the  things  that  are ; 
Who  backs  his  faith  in  the  utmost  right, 
With  many  and  many  a  scar. 

Here's  the  wine  of  joy  to  comfort  his  soul, 
With  a  cup  to  his  purpose  never  to  yield; 
Here's  a  crown  of  laurel  to  wear  at  his  goal; 
Here's  peace  should  he  fall  on  the  field. 


To   H.    M.    B.,   Jr. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  47 

RENDERINGS  FROM  CHAUCER. 
I. 

THE  DEATH   OF   BLANCHE. 

So  much  of  grief  to  me  hath  come, 
That  joy  with  me  hath  ne'er  its  home ; 
Now  that  I  see  my  lady  bright, 
Whom  I  have  loved  with  all  my  might, 
Is  from  me  gone  and  in  the  tomb. 

Alas !    O  Death,  what  aileth  thee 
That  thou  should'st  not  have  taken  me? 
When  that  thou  took'st  my  lady  fair, 
The   brightest,    freest,    freshest-souled, 
Most  beatific  to  behold, 
A  nymph  was  not  more  debonair ! 

II. 
MORNING. 

The  busy  lark  the  messenger  of  day 

Saluteth  in  her  song  the  morrow  gray, 

And  glad  the  sun  ariseth  clear  and  bright 

So  that  the  whole  East  laughs  with  merry  light! 

A 

DIVINE  RHYTHM. 

Clouds,  then  glory  of  sunset; 

Darkness,  then  burst  of  the  morn; 
Dearth,  then   the  gentle  shower; 

Sacrifice — Truth  is  born! 

The  earth-throe,   then  comes  the  harvest ; 

Silence,    and    then   the   word; 
Mist,  before  the  full  starlight; 

Discord,  ere  music  is  heard! 

Erring,  and  then  the  forgiveness; 

Heart's-ease  after  the  strife ; 
Passion,   and  then  the   refining — 

Death,  then  the  wonder  of  life ! 


48  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  TtAT.T.ATl  OF  PEACE. 

You  say  that  the  war  is  ended?     Why,  the  fighting  has  just 

begun; 
For  the  war  against  evil  is  endless,  and  will  last  till  time  is  done. 

The  czar  and  the  kaiser  shall  perish  and  lie  forgotten  in  dust; 
But  the  selfish  god  of    old  mammon    must  lie  with  them  in 
the  rust. 

There's  a  battle  to  fight  with  Habit;    a  charge  to  be  made  on 

Deceit; 
And  the  undersea  craft  of  the  Liar  must  face  the  destroying 

fleet 

There's   the  poisoned   gas   of  Envy  that  kills   without   reason 

or  ruth, 
And  the  selfish  propaganda  that  cankers  the  wells  of  Truth. 

And  God  has  marshaled  his  conscripts  to  fight  for  the  Cross 

and  Crown, 
To  shatter  the  legions  of  Darkness,  and  batter  the  whole  crew 

down. 

The  flowers  will  grow  in  Flanders,  the  lilies  in  France  again ; 
And  the  lands  in  turbulent  Russia  will  yellow  with  golden  grain : 

And  Italy's  gardens  will  flourish,  her  oranges  garnish  the  hills, 
And  figs  and  olives  in  Smyrna  will  bloom  by  the  running  rills: 

But  Doubt  and  Despair  and  Failure,  those  imps  of  the  devil's 

horde, 
Must  be  stormed  in  their  iron  castles  and  put  to  the  two-edged 

sword. 

And  disease   and  the  drug  and  the  wine-cup,  that  bring  sure 

death  in  their  train, 
Must  be   hung  with   the   heavy   millstone   and   dropped   in   the 

sounding  main. 

Who  says  that  the  war  has  ended  ?  The  battles  are  not  half  won ; 
For  the  fight  against  wrong  is  endless  and  will  last  until  time 
is  done. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  49 


AT  MONTALVO. 

There  is  magic  in  the  sunshine;  there  is  May-time  in  the  sky; 
And  soft  summery  clouds  are  whitening  in  their  sunny  march 
on   high. 

Sing  the  linnets  in  the  arbor,  shout  the  quail  upon  the  hill; 
And  a  little  song    of  wonder  croons  the  darkly-shaded  rill. 

Shine  the  sylphy  purple  lilacs,  azure  springtime's  radiant  dower. 
Shapes  of  sapphire  sky  thick-woven  for  a  happy  lover's  bower. 

Rune  the  stately  sempervirens  memories  of  the  olden  time; 
And   the   songs   they   chant   are   touched   with   many  a  tale  of 
merry   rhyme. 

Here  is  joy  and   here   is   wonder!     Time   delays   his  hurrying 

flight: 
Lo,  the  far  fields  spread  and  greaten  to  a  glory  and  a  light! 

Here  we  hark  back  to  the  splendor  of  the  shining  names  that 

were: 
Saint  and  soldier;  prophet,  thinker;  poet  and  enlightener. 

Here   from  this   fair  grove  of  Aidenn,  gaze  we  happy  on  our 

way: 
For  the  trail  of  the  tomorrow  will  be  better  than  today. 

So  we  loiter  with  the  Dreamer,  great  Montalvo  come  again, 
Touched  with  spirit  and  fine  vision  of  the  joys  and  hopes  of 

men. 
May,    1921. 


THANKSGIVING. 

'Tis  not  alone  the  grateful  word  we  give, 
Spirit  Divine,  for  sun,  and  flower,  and  rill, 
And   furry   folk,   and  birds  that  live 
On  leafy-mantled  hill; 

Nay,  not  for  these,  the  thankful  eye  we  lift 
And  chant  the  song  of  praise  in  solemn  part; 
But   for  thy  wondrous   spirit-gift, 
The  kindly  human   heart! 


SO  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

CONTRA  COSTA. 
To  S.  E.  H. 

A  sea  that  mirrors  earth  and  sky, 
A  shadowy  heron  sailing  by, 
Mild  mother-hills  all  green  and  low, 
And  fields  where  stainless  flowers  blow  ! 

When-e'er  I  muse  upon  the  scene 
I  feel  the  touch  of  peace  serene, 
And  then  the   restless   fire-swept  brain 
Is,  for  a  breath,  itself  again. 

And  now,  O  loyal  friend,  with  you 
I  trail  the  sacred  paths  anew; 
Again   I   dream   beneath   the  trees, 
And  scent  the  odor-laden  breeze. 

And  is  it  not  worth  more  than  gold 
To  muse  thus  on  the  days  of  old, 
And  catch  once  more  that  glory  white 
That  gathers  to  immortal  light? 


SAN  DIEGO-BY-THE-SEA. 

Never  was  April  field  more  fair 
Unto   mine  eye   than   thee  ! 
Thy   myriad-  jeweled  waters   gently    wear 
Edenic  grace   for  me  ! 

Serene  within   thy   sun-girt  glory, 

In  truth  thou  art  supreme  ; 

For,  as  thy  naiad  airs  recount  thy  story, 

I  pause  ;    and  dream,  and  dream  ! 

Or  in  the  woof  of  gold  romance, 
Gleams'  there  such  mystery? 
Or  in  the  warp  of  starry  circumstance, 
Can  such  wild  beauty  be 

Here  by  this  murmuring  purple  sea, 
Truly  I  could,  I  deem, 
With  all  the  gracious  lilt  of  melody 
Sing    the    Immortal    Theme! 
November  5th,  1921. 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  51 


SIR  HENRY  HUDSON. 

(It  is  related  that,  after  discovering  the  beautiful  New  York 
river  known  by  his  name,  Henry  Hudson  sailed  in  search  of  the 
"North-west  passage"  to  the  Orient,  where  he  hoped  to  find 
the  "Happy  Isles."  His  men  deserted  in  Hudson's  bay,  return 
ing  south  with  the  Half-Moon;  but  Hudson  never  came  back.) 

The  great  Sir  Hendrick  spread  his  sail — 
He  sailed  in  the  cold  north  breeze ; 

With  veer  and  tack  he  sought  the  track 
To  the  mellow  summer  seas. 

To  the  mellow  summer  seas  he  ranged, 

With  singing  cord  and  sail — 
Those  seas,  he  said,  in  the  sunset  red 

Know  neither  a  reef,  nor  gale. 

For  he  dreamed  a  magic  strait  somewhere 

Loomed   in  the   storm-swept  coast ; 
But  through  and  through  his  craven  crew 

Were  a-fear  at  the  breakers'  host. 

And  the  Half-Moon  reeled  in  the  stormy  wind, 

And  crashed  in  the  icy  tide ; 
But  Sir  Henry  stood  as  a  sailor  should 

With  a  joy  in  that  splendid  ride. 

But  his  men  a-near,  in  craven  fear, 

Gazed   longingly  behind ; 
And  the  wild  sea-mew  fierce  screaming,  flew 

And  the  salt  gale  whined  and  whined. 

Then  knives  flashed  bare  in  that  thin  cold  air; 

There  was  dread  in  the  breakers'  boom ; 
"Yon   sea,"  cried  the  crew,  "is  a  demon  brew, 

And  you  sail  to  your  icy  doom." 

They  launched  his  trim  and  stout  life  boat; 

They  gave  him  sail  and  oar ; 
They  turned  again  to  the  sunny  main 

Of  the   safe  Atlantic   shore. 


52  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Since  then  oh  many  a  year  has   sped ; 

But  who  has  forgot  that  he 
Was  the  very  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  unknown  sea : 

And  what  of  those  mutinous  awestruck  men 
Who  fled  from  the  great  emprise? 

No  friendly  bard  shall  shape  a  word 
To  cover  their  traitorous  lies. 

But  him  alone,  who  still  sailed  on, 
And  yet  at  last  went  down, — 

No  wreath  I  bring,  no  song  I  sing, 
Is  worthy  his  great  renown. 


ON  BERKELEY  HULS. 

Here  grow  the  amber  poppies,  gold,  like  stars, 
On  hills  as  sapphire  as  a  tropic  sea ; 
Here  lark  and  linnet  sing  their  magic  bars 
Sweeter  than   nightingale  of  Arcady. 

God  wanted  Eden;    so  he  chose  these  leas 
And  bowled  His  sky  above  them  blue  and  wide; 
About  their  feet  He  poured  His  summer  seas 
Where  magic  Argosies  enchanted  ride. 

What  showers  of  wealth  and  life  this  good  earth  brings 
What  rest  and  sleep  and  dream  come  flowing  in ! 
Lo,  here  is  joy  and  empire,  all  good  things, 
"And  here  again  man  may  forget  to  sin. 


LOSS. 

Joy  came  like  the   first   flash  of  a   Sierran   Dawn, 
Bringing   again    delight   in    flower   and   leaf. 
A  bride — she  wore  her  veil  of  silvery  lawn; 
And  then  she  hid  herself  in  deep  autumnal  grief. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  53 

SAILING  TOGETHEB. 

To  George  Rankin  Mitchell  with  memories  of  many  fruitful 
Poetry  Hours. 

A  full  white  moon  and  a  brimming  tide : 

Oh  the  surge  of  waters  for  me ! 

For  the  winds  are  swift  and  the  long  waves  lift, 

And  I  sing  a  song  of  the  sea ! 

I  sing  a  song  of  the  wintery  sea 
While  the  wind  hums  in  the  sail: 
We  burst  in  glee  from  the  quiet  lee, 
And  spin  in  the  freshening  gale. 

We  sail  and  we  sail  till  the  storm  is  loud ; 
But  never  a  thought  have  we 
But  to  hold  the  keel  with  a  steady  wheel 
And  master  the  surging  sea! 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER. 

Sweep  on,  O  tide,  across  the  yellow  sands, 
And  rock  the  birds,  and  flash  the  autumn  moon! 
No  more  the  long  upbroken  summer  dream, 
The  days  are  gone,  and,  oh,  too  soon ! 

And  thou,   O   wave,   upon   the  distant  crag 
Break  thy  wild  heart  from  dawn  to  scarlet  dawn! 
No  more  will  I  the  rolling  billows  ride. 
The  oar  is  lost,  the  rudder  gone ! 

And  thou,  my  most  beloved,  who  changest  not 
Line  foamy  tide  or  briny  summer  wind ; 
I  have  a  realm  I  consecrate  to  thee, 
An  inland  of  contented  mind ! 


54      SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  QUEST  FOR  THE  SEVEN  CITIES. 

A  Ballad  of  the  Colorado. 

(Note. — The  Spanish*  sailor,  Alarkan,  commanded  the  voy 
age  up  the  Gulf  of  California  when  Coronado  went  in  search 
of  the  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola  which  were  said  to  be  in  the 
Spanish  Southwest.  Alarkan  discovered  the  lower  Colorado, 
sailed  up  the  river,  was  deceived  temporarily  by  a  mirage  into 
thinking  he  had  discovered  the  cities,  and  soon  returned  West. 
The  Seven  Cities  were  prophetic  of  the  great  cities  of  Southern 
California.') 

Northward  the  breeze  through  the  roaring  seas 
Bore  the  while  sails  afar, 

And  the  prow  a-shine  kissed  the  surging  brine, 
And  shot  for  the  Northern   Star. 

The  gulls  flew  fast,  high  ran  the  blast 
The  tall  mast  bent  with  the  strain; 
And  the  sailor  he  was  as  stern  as  the  sea 
As  the  ship   spun  over  the   main. 

His  keen  eye  scanned  all  the  harsh  drear  land 
That  loomed  on  the  barren  coast : 
But  never  a  spire  burned  a  lighted  fire, 
The  promise   of  his   high   boast. 

Far,  far  he  sailed  till  the  tides  ran  wild, 
And  mad  reefs  loomed  in  his  way: 
Quoth  the  Sailor  then  to  his  fearsome  men: 
"Lo,  yonder  our  'break  of  day' !" 

For  across  the  reef  the  sea  was  fair, 
And  slept  the  waves  like  a  child: 
The  helm  he  drew,  and  the  ship  ran  through 
Into  those  waters  mild. 

Into  those  waters  mild  he  sailed ; 

It  seemed  like  a  haven  in  heaven: 

And  his  eye  he  raised,  and  he  spoke  as  he  gazed : 

"Ahead  lie  the  magic  Seven!" 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  55 

On  into  the  waveless  water  he  bore; 

And   entered   that   silent   land: 

But  the  bank  of  that  stream  like  a  weary  dream 

Stretched   in   relentless   sand. 

Then  the  stream  grew  red  as  sunset  blood: 
An  incense  perfumed  the  air; 
And  the  seamen  stood  in  wonderhood, 
And  gazed  on  the  vision  there. 

For  then  a  miracle  spread  afar: 
On  the  shining  sands  there  loomed 
A  City  great;    and  with  hearts  elate, 
They  saw  that  its  gardens  bloomed. 

A  city,  rich,  rose  fair  and  far: 
Said  the  Sailor:     "One  of  the  Seven!" 
E'en  as  he  spoke  it  was  gone  like  smoke, 
Or  clouds  on  a  summer  even. 

An  endless  way  he  sailed  and  sailed : 

Then  he  turned  to  the  setting  sun. 

"We  are  whirled,"  he  cried,  "in  a  phantom  world, 

And  the  river  and  sands  are  one !" 

********* 
Bold  Alarkan,  know  your  mystic  dream 
Has  doubly-sure  come  true : 
For  the  barren  sands  of  thosre  mystic  lands 
Were  waiting  for  yours  and  you ! 

You  saw  the  sign,  you  noted  it  well; 
For  the  goal  you  have  nobly  striven, 
And  the  God   fulfills  on  these  sundown   hills 
All  your  dreams  of  the  Cities  Seven. 


A  DAY  ON  SUMMER  SEAS. 

The  sun-rise-flash  and  the   sky-flame; 
The  blue  sea  calm  as  the  stars ; 
The  long  strong  pull  at  the  oar-locks; 
And  the  gull  on  the  white  sand-bars ! 
The  morn  is  a  rose-red  ruby; 


56  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

An  orient  sapphire  the  sea! 

Yes,  these  are  the  treasures  I'm  after, 

And  this  is  the  booty  for  me ! 

I  hear  the  crash  of  the  breaker; 
And  the  song  of  the  wild  bell-buoy; 
And  the  lyric  sweep  of  the  sea-wind, 
As  it  sings  of  the  new-coming  joy! 
Comes   ozone   from   magical  islands 
Afloat  on  the  morning  breeze — 
Was  there  ever  a  Circean  bower 
Bore  perfumes  enchanted  as  these? 

The   white  sail-flash   in  the  sunshine; 

The  swish  of  the  long  salmon-line; 

The  fisherman  tense  at  the  gunwale; 

The  bark  rich  with  spoil  from  the  brine! 

The  sea-rover  proud  of  his  capture, 

And  preening  his  sail  for  home-flight; 

And,  swiften  than  thought,  for  his  loved  ones 

He  flies  as  with  wings  of  light! 

The  race  to  the  mild,  sheltered  haven 
With  the  fresh  gale  swinging  behind; 
The  gossamer-white  of  the  foam-wreath 
The  song  of  the  sails  in  the  wind; 
A  soul  that  is  lighter  than  rock-spray 
Back  from  its  wonderful  quest, 
And  lost  in  the  mystical  dream-world, 
Of  the  great  unmatchable  West! 

The  kindly  light  in  the  faces 
That  watch  when  the  day  is  done ; 
The   friendly  smile  of  the  comrades, 
And  the  twilight  of  love  has  begun ! 
The  rest  in  the  vine-covered  arbor, 
With  a  vision  of  days  to  be: 
And  one  more  gentle  adventure 
Is  gone  as  the  foam  of  the  sea! 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  57 

THE  FATE  OF  THE  TITANIC. 

She  steamed  from  port  that  April  day 
And  fearless  tracked  her  prime  way  West, 

And  a  glint  of  gold  and  a  joy  untold 
Companioned  in  her  regal  breast. 

England's   high  grandeur   was  her  dower; 

The  New  World's  diadem  she  wore ; 
But  her  stout  heart  failed  and  the  track  she  trailed 

Is  hers  to  trail — Ah,  nevermore! 

Oh,  it  was  stern  Fate,  or  was  it  Death, 

Or  a  direful  greed  and  lust  of  gain, 
That  drew  her  down  with  king  and  clown 

To  rot  in  the  ooze  of  the  tuneless  main? 

O,  life,  it  was  rife  that  fair  spring  morn 
When  she  sailed  the  trackless  watery  miles, 

But  the  sea  made  sure  with  its  deadly  lure, 
And   sunk  her  deep  to   the   Cruel   Isles. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

I    sailed    away 

In   thought  one   day 

Out  where  a  mighty  squadron  lay 

But  the  sailors   laughed 

And   took  my   craft, 

And   broke  my   spar  in  play. 

Out    and   afar 

O'er   the    storm-beat   bar 

That    squadron    sailed ; 

But  never   a  tar 

Came  from  that  sea 

But   one,   and   he 

Came  tied  to   my  broken   spar. 


STARRY  DEEPS 


THE  UNANSWERABLE. 

When  shall  this  passing  show  of  love  and  time 

Fade  to  an  end? 

Shall  each  life  move  to  each  in  endless  chain 
Until,  in  sweet,  unmeasured  days  to  be, 
The  joy  divine  shall  triumph  over  pain; 
Then  on,  for  aye,  upon  an  undreamed  sea? 

Or  shall  the  God  descend, 
And,  with  a  flood  of  golden  molten  stars, 
Cleanse  all  at  once  the  earthy  passion-stain, 
And,  sweeping  past  Orion's  far-swung  bars, 
On  in  His  flashing  sun-wheeled  comet-train, 

Whirl  till  He  blend 
Time,  love,  and  death  in  one  last  Eden-prime? 


LOVE. 
To  J.  and  C.  L. 

Young  as  the  swift  heartbeat  of  a  fiery  boy: 
Old  as  the  pain  that  fell  on  sorrowing  Troy! 

Fair  as  the  blush  upon  an  April  rose : 
White  as  the  light  upon  Sierran  snows ! 

Bewitching  as  the  air  in  mild  September : 
Wild  as  the  winds  that  blow  in  dark  December! 

Strong  as  the  sprites  that  wing  the  boundless  deep : 
Still  as  the  night,  calm  as  Eternal  Sleep! 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  59 

MISSION  SAN  ANTONIO. 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  crumbling  wall, 
'Twas  said  that  Hope  had  set  her  mystic  reign ; 
Here  the  meek  padre  voiced  the  happy  call, 
Nor  deemed  his  labor  ever  should  be  vain. 

Ten  thousand  neophytes  with  many  a  don 
Lifted  an  eye  to  heaven  in  humble  prayer, 
Oft  made  the  sign,  and  called,  in  pleading  tone, 
The  royal  Christ  to  set  his  kingdom  there. 

Now   even  the  rafters  melt  into  the  dust, 

The  owl  and  lizard  nest  in  vagrant  ease; 

The  nail  and  door-lock  break  with  deadened  rust, 

Tarantula  and  spider  hold  the  keys. 

And  they  who  grew  the  olive  and  the  vine, 
And  plucked  the  poppy  or  the  sweet  wild  rose, 
Whose  magic  turned  the  grape  to  bubbling  wine, 
Have  shut  the  door  and  gone,  where !   no  one  knows. 


AN  OLD  ADOBE  DWELLING. 

They  say  that,  in  the  happy  golden  day, 
This   was  the   sweet-sung  castle   of   delight, 
That  shadowed  by  these  oaken  branches'  sway 
Dwelt  the  Castilian  scion  in  his  might. 

They  say  the  olive  and  the  yellow  wheat 

Made  plenty  in  these  rolling  sun-down  lands 

That  morning  quail  and  evening  dove  whirred  sweet, 

And   meadow-brooklets   ran   in  golden  sands. 

But  now  the  eagle  and  coyote  guard 
The  broken  banquet-hall  of  that  old  dream; 
And  nothing  of  mirth  and  vintage  song  is  heard 
Save  what  is  hollow  echoed  from  the  stream. 

And  where  the  Senorita  took  her  rest 

The  ivy  clings  and  poison  oaklet  grows, 

And  they  who  sang  and  made  the  laughing  jest 

Have  shut  the  door  and  gone,  where !    no  one  knows ! 


60  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

FULFILLMENT. 

One  eve,  a  full-blown  autumn  rose 
Fell  sighing  to  the  verdant  lawn  ; 
Sighing,  she  breathed  her  nameless  woes  ; 
"An  hour,  and  we  are  gone!" 

A  vagrant  word  fell  from  the  lips 
Of  one  who  thoughtless  played  with  time  — 
Wasting  as  breath  of  perfume  slips 
From   wreaths   of   flowered  lime. 

But  that  frail  rose  a  lover  claimed, 
And  kept  it  as  a  true-love's  sign  ; 
And  that  strange  word  a  poet  framed 
Into  a  song  divine. 


THE  TAVERN. 
To  F.  H. 

Death  keeps  a  Tavern  strangely  built  and  fair, 
And  bids  thereto  how  many  a  welcome  guest! 

Mark  how  magnificent  the  drapery  spread 
Upon  the  couch  whereon  the  bidden  rest. 

Old  childhood  friends  are  there,  and  those  in  truth 
The  rarest  and  the  best  of  sweet  youth's  prime, 

And  those  who  lo!  have  even  yesterday 

Walked  side  by  side  with  us  the  Trail  of  Time. 

Then  send  the  portress,  Death,  to  swing  the  door 
Whene'er  the  traveler  clangs  the  brazen  bell, 

And  in  the  Record-Book  engrave  his  name 

And  light  his  room  and  bid  him  slumber  well! 


INSPIRATION. 

It  flashes  in  from  the  depths  of  dawn 
Like  some  strange  comet  from  infinite  night; 
Then  plays  for  a  moment  in  infinite  light, 
And  then  with  its  splendor  forever  is  gone. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  61 

RECONCILIATION. 

Where  lupines  bloom  and  poppies  blow 

And   poplars  tower   to   the   sky 
And  the  long  lines  of  new-sown  wheat 

Slope  down  to  where  the  marshes  lie. 

'Tis  there  beneath  the  poplar  shade, 

Watched  by  a  thousand  lupine  eyes, 

Asleep  and  alone  in  a  dim,  dim  night, 
My  own,  my  matchless  Harold  lies. 

And  when  at  eve  the  tide  comes  in, 

And  round  and  full-lit  floats  the  moon, 

And  faint  and  far  across  the  marsh 
Is  heard  the  sand-crane's  croon; 

'Tis  then  I  seek  the  poplar  shade, 

And,  while  the  eve-star  swings  its  gleam, 

I  turn  from  sighing  leaf  and  flower 
To  shudder  at  the  plover's  scream. 

0  cruel  plover,  cry  no  more 

Like  moaning  tide  or  sullen  wind; 
For  all  unmeet  it  is  to  grieve 

Except  for  those  who  fare  behind. 

But,  stately  flyers  swinging  by, 

Clang  all  your  mellowed  sweetness  forth; 
For,  while  ye  seek  your  chosen  isles, 

He  goes  to  claim  his  Happy  South! 

ON  THE  LIFE-TRAIL. 

1  only  keep  a-climbing. 

I  know  the  stars  of  God  are  overhead; 
And  by  yon   far-off  gleaming   spirit-wand, 
The  meteor's  gleam,  I  know  that  I  am  led; 
And    so   I  keep   a-climbing. 

I  only  keep  a-climbing. 

It  may  be  yon  blue  range  will  be  the  last; 

It  may  be  many  others  loom  beyond ; 

And  yet  I  know  the  summit  will  be  passed, 

And   so   I  keep   a-climbing. 


62  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

HUNTING  SONG. 

When  the  sweet  south  wind  comes  singing 
Through  the  shining  oak-tree  leaves, 
And  the  white  wild  goose  comes  winging, 
And  the  winds  cry  at  the  eaves  : 

When  the  mallard's  wing  at  moon-rise 
Whistles  through  the  deepening  blue, 
And  you  hear  the  crane's  low  croon  rise, 
I'll  be  coming  home  to  you. 

When  you  light  the  autumn  fire, 
And  the  flames  dance  on  the  floor; 
And  the  sparks  climb  high  and  higher 
As  white  souls  climb  evermore, 

If  the   runeing  of  the  cricket 
Makes  you  tingle  through  and  through, 
Then  you'll  know  the  swing  of  the  wicket, 
For  I'm  coming  home  to  you. 


FROM  nATTffi.PTTT.AH  TO  CHRYSALIS. 

Lo,  this  is  the  miracle!     He  broke  his  mask, 
And  set  himself  unto  a  finer  task. 

Shattered  and  useless  dropped  his   worn-out   shell, 
Which  to  the  timeless   dust  forgotten   fell; 

While,  golden-spangled,  chased  with  emerald  rare, 
Hung  with  an  ebon  cord,  graceful  and  fair 

As  a  cup  wrought  roseate  from  chalcedony, 
Lovelier  than  a  blossom  of  the  lea, 

He  slept  the  long  still  winter  hour  by  hour, 
A  happy  elf  within  a  magic  bower  : 

He  slept,  a  mystery  with  wonder  rife  — 
This  secret-shapen  beauteous  essence,  Life  ! 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  63 

TO  THE  WHITE  HONKER  GOOSE. 

(Wo    one    fois    discovered    the   summer    home    of    the    great 
snow-white  goose. — Nat.   Hist.   Note.) 

Whither  away,  O  magical  seaman, 
Into  the  deeps  of  blue  and  light! 
Is  it  in  search  of  angel  or  demon 
Thou  wingst  away  into  infinite  night? 

Could   I  possess  thy  tireless  pinion, 
I'd  sail  to  the  land  of  Heart's  Desire; 
And  safe  on  the  shore  of  Pleasure's  dominion 
My  heart  would  glow  with  such  living  fire, 

That  mortals  who  saw  my  ethereal  winging 
Should  deem  that  from  some  faint  comet  alar, 
A  spirit,  on  fair  happy  venture  a-swinging, 
Had  lighted  anew  a  burnt-out  star. 
Dec.    12,    1918. 


THE  THTJ.S  OF  LONG  AGO. 

Out  of  the  Hills  of  Long  Ago 
A  loved  and  solemn  music  steals, 
And  the  vision  it  brings,  the  face  it  reveals, 
.Smiles  with  a  joy  that  softens  and  heals, — 
Out  of  the  Hills  of  Long  Ago! 

Out  of  the  Hills  of  Long  Ago: 
Yes,  with  the  smile  of  a  summer  day, 
The  voice  and  the  eye-gleam  beckon  alway, 
Until  as  a  child  in  fancy  I  stray 
Far  in  the  Hills  of  Long  Ago! 

Out  of  the  Hills  of  Long  Ago 
I  would  not  bring  her  again,  if  I  could; 
For  the  sun-lit  brow,  and  the  golden  flood 
Of  curl,  and  the  song  would  be  gone,  were  she  wooed. 
Out  of  the  Hills  of  Long  Ago! 


64  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BIRDS. 

No  magic  e'er  can  shape  the  word 
Of  beauty  in  the  homing  bird: 

High  in  the  blossoms  of  his  tree, 
He  weaves  his  nest  in  quiet  glee, 

Singing,  the  while   his  gentle  mate 
Labors  with   him,  her  heart  elate. 

With  gossamer  and  curly  leaf, 
With  thistle-down  and  oaty  sheaf, 

He  builds  and  toils  till,  lo,  a  wonder! 
Four  globes  of  pearl  her  soft  wings  under  ! 

And  then  the  jewels  burst  to  light: 
And  four  quaint  feathery  babies  dight 

In  silkeny  down  are  loved  and  sung  to 
From  the  green  spray  the  nest  is  swung  to; 

Till  the  whole  family  in  flight 

Skur  through  the  air  as  sunbeams  white. 

God  gave  us  singing  lark  and  linnet, 
Creatures  who  joy  for  all  that's  in  it; 

Vital  they  are  in  that  great  plan 
That  runs  from  protoplast  to  man! 


AMONG  THE  FIELDS. 

The  Sacramento  winds  among  her  trees 
The  same.     The  Feather  leads  her  golden  sands 
On  to  the  sea.     And  in  the  Northern  breeze 
The  Sutter  oaks  wave  long  and  leafy  strands. 
Upon  the  Sutter  Hills  the  herder's  bands 
Of  sheep  and  cattle  crop  the  waving  oat; 
And  tall  north  Butte  a  lonely  turret  stands. 
The  wild  sand-crane  still  sings  in  mournful 
Again  and  again  her  melancholy  mournful  note. 


SONGS  OF  AUTUMN 


SEPTEMBER. 

A  twitter  of  wrens,  a  rustle  of  leaves, 
How  sweet  'tis  to  remember ! 

Such  is  the  magic  nature  weaves 
When  it   is   mild   September. 

A  gossamer  on  the  gentle  wind, 
White  as  the  snow  of  December, 

Bright  as  a  spirit  unconfined ; 
And  it  is  mild   September. 

A  honker  call  from  the  clear  blue  sky, 

Prophetic  of  November. 
Tis  answered  by  the  flock's  high  cry — 

Yes,   it  is  mild   September. 

A  zephyry  odor  from  the  pine, 

Light  as   a   flashing  ember; 
A  lark  song  with  a  lilt  divine — 

Oh,  it  is  mild   September! 


RAIN-PRAYER. 

Blow,    fragrant   gales,    from    sunny   southern   isles, 
And   bring   again   the    soothing   Autumn   rain ! 
Blow  but   one   breath — the   earth   is    full  of  smiles, 
And  all  the  flowers  will  be  them-selves  again! 
The  parching  fields  are  burnt  with  droughty  pain, 
The  figs  and  locusts  beckon  murm'ringly, 
The  hills  are  grim  with  drear  and  dusty  stain, 
Bring  then  the  cooling  mist  from  palmy  sea ; 
And  I  too  wait  and  yearn  for  your  sweet  ministry. 


66  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  SONG  OF  AUTUMN. 

"Tis  old  Autumn  the  musician 
Who  with  pipe  and  tabor  weaves 
The  sweet  music  lovers  sigh  for 
In   the   falling  of  the  leaves. 

I  have  heard  his  distant  anthem 
Go  a-sighing  through  the  trees 
Like  the  distant  shouts  of  children, 
Or  the  hum  of  swarming  bees. 

When  he  plays  the  leaflets  flutter 
On  the  boughs  that  hold  them  fast; 
Or  they  scurry  through  the  forest, 
Or  they  spin  before  the  blast. 

And  they  frolic  and  they  gambol, 
And  they  cling  to  Autumn's  gown 
As  the  children  to  the  piper's, 
In  the  famous  Hamelin  Town. 

Then  they  rustle  and  they  hurry 
To  a  canyon  dark  and  deep; 
And  the  piper,  dear  old  Autumn, 
Pipes  till  they  are  fast  asleep. 

A  -  - 

LIFE.     ' 

The  mysteries  of  being  are 
The  same  in  protoplast  and  star. 
They  touch  us  in  the  hum  of  bee 
And  in  the  tumult  of  the  sea. 

The  same  in  microbe  of  the  slime, 
And  in  the  master  poet's  rhyme ; 

The   same  in   fire  of  the   dawn 
And  genius  of  Napoleon; 
The  same   in  rootlet  of  the  sod, 
And  in  the  cherubim  of  God ! 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER   POEMS  67 

AUTUMN  REVERIE. 

De  sof  willer-leabs  am  yellow,  an'  de  wil'-goose  sailing  high, 
And  de  fleecy  clouds  am  gadd'rin'  in  de  middle  ob  de  sky; 

An'  de  ol'  Souf-win'  am  blowin'  fum  de  far-way  sunny  isles — 
Dis  de  meller  Autumn  bringin'  alternatin'  tears  an'  smiles. 

Dar  dat  tu'ky  am  a-goblin'  down  the  whisp'rin'  popla'  lane, 
An'  de  punkins  in  de  medda,  dey  am  gittin'  ripe  again, 

An'  de  oda  ob  de  chicken  ling'rin'  roun'  de  kitchen  fire, 
It  jes'  mek  one  feel  like  singin'  in  de  great  celestial  qniah. 

But  dat  yaller-hammer  pipin'  in  de  oak-tree  on  de  hill, 
Somehow  calls  again  de  pipin'  ob  a  voice  fo'eber  still; 

An'  dat  roosta-quail  a-shoutin'  in  de  elderberry  row! — 
Ken  dat  be  da  same  ol'  bugle  fum  dat  day  o'  long  ago? 

Ol'  dog  Tige  he  stiff  an'  growly,  an'  he  only  wag  hi'  tail 
Wen  he  heah  Mis'  Nanna'  bangin'  on  the  chillun  dinna-pail ; 

An  he  slip  inta  de  kitchen,  an'  beneaf  de  stove  he  sleep, 
Dreamin'  fight  wif  wil'  coyote  when  dey  come  to  ketch  da  sheep. 

Seems  dat  win'  he  sigh  mo'  shrilly  dan  he  do  w'en  I  war  young, 
An'  Aunt  Mary  am  so  solemn  w'en  de  san'-crane  song  am  sung; 

But  I  feel  dat  somewhar  somehow,  w'en  I  heah  de  kildee  sing, 
Out  beyon'  dis  lonesome  Autumn  will  come  eberlastin'   Spring. 


AFTER  THE  EARTHQUAKE. 

Silence,  O  troubled  heart ! 
This   agony  of  Time, 
This  surge  and  throe  of  death 
This  cry  of  death  sublime, 
Is  but  the  Titan-change, 
The  Cosmic  thrill  sky-born, 
The   fire   sung  omen  of 
A    new    creation-morn ! 


68  SIERRAN    PAN  AND   OTHER   POEMS 

A  SONG  OF  SEPTEMBER. 

Sing  to  me,   O  mild  September,  of  the  wonder-days  of  old 
When  thy  glory  rose  and  beaconed  flaming  like  a  dawn  of  gold. 
Sing  of  harvest-field  and  fallow,  of  the  wild  hare  in  the  grain ; 
Of   the    blue    sky,    and    the    white   cloud,    and   the    first    sweet 
autumn  rain. 

Sing  September !  for  thine  hours  never  know  the  touch  of  care ; 
Lit  with  mystical  dream- faces,  blown  with  strange  celestial  air ; 
Graced  with  fire  of  sacred  morning,  blazing  into  shining  noon ; 
Draped  with  gold  of  magic  sunset,  and  the  great  Sierran  Moon. 

Sing  the  maze  of  mystic  twilight  of  those  unforgotten  years 
When    I   heard   the  young  stars   runeing  to  the   music  of  the 

spheres. 

Sing  the  loved  autumnal  leisure,  and  the  dear  remembered  ease — 
Sundown  hours  of  soft  Nirvana  from  the  nameless  Poppy-seas ! 

When  Time  knew  no  change  nor  shadow  and  space  ever  was  the 

same, 

Ere  the  timeless  spirit-hunger  burned  me  as  a  desert  flame ; 
When  a  vision  of  wild  Beauty  touched  the  far  mount  and  the 

dale, 
Tinged  with  glory  all  the  meadow,  haunted  every  hidden  trail. 

When  she  lured  me  to  high  places  in  the  ancient  sacred  hills, 
Where  she  wraps  the  peak  in  azure,  and  the  sky  with  glory  fills ; 
When  I  saw  her  in  the  marshes,  where  the  murky  waters  sleep, 
All  alone  I  felt  her  presence,  saw  her  in  the  starry  deep: 

Saw  her  in  the  rose-white  faces  musing  by  the  whitening  stream ; 
In  the  gentle  forms  low-runeing  where  the  lights  of  evening 

gleam; 

In  the  silkened  hair  dim-whirling  in  the  softened  summer  breeze 
In  the  peal  of  laughter  rippling  from  the  merry  orchard  trees ; 

In  the  dreamy  glow  of  faces  friendly  in  the  quiet  vale, 

In  those  burning  eyes  that,  deathless,  flash  the  loves  that  never 

fail. 

I  remember  the  last  morning  when  I  saw  her  on  the  wold 
Changing  as  a  summer   radiance  mellows  into  evening  gold. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS      69 

It  was  then  my  sire,  relentless  fired  my  being  to  the  core; 
And  a  deathless   aspiration   drew  me   on   forevermore; 
And  my  heart  beat  wild  and  restless  as  I  watched  the  vision  rise 
And  the  great  adventure  ever  loomed  a  glory  in  the  skies. 

There  cloud  caravans  of  April,  white  as  Phoebus'  fiery  car 
Ever  beaconed  me  to  follow  to  the  wonderland  afar. 
There  the  tawny  autumn  sand-crane  in  a  tireless  swinging  flight 
Day  by  day  persuaded  onward  to  the  distant  luring  light. 

There  the  wild  swan  in  the  winter  with  a  song  that  seemed  a  sigh 
Circled  on  with  little  pauses  where  the  greening  wheat-fields  lie. 
The  great  comet  pointed  Southward,  "Southward,"  breathed  the 

winds  of  May ; 
And  field-lark  lilted  sweetly,  "Over  the  meadows  and  far  away." 

And  the  comrade  hearts  around  me  felt  the  beauty  of  the  gleam, 
And  they  followed  with  their  faces  lit  with  iridescent  dream. 
Was  it  strange  I,  too,  unbridled  my  soul-deep  desire  to  know — 
I  who  never  tasted  passion,  never  tasted  human  woe. 

Thus  I  left  the  younger  Eden  for  an  Eden  yet  unnamed, 
And  this  Eden  in  my  fancy  like  a  great  Arcturus  flamed. 
Since  those  golden  days,  with  passion  I  have  traveled  sea  and  land, 
Have  communed  with   sage  and  poet,  ranged  on  many  a  fairy 
strand. 

I  have  sought  the  primal  mystery  in  song  and  prophet  page, 
And  I  find  youth's  endless  yearning  burns  anew  in  ripened  age. 
So  I  turn  to  those  long  dreamy  unforgotten  afternoons 
As  a  traveler  turns  to  listen  to  a  singer  of  old  tunes. 

Sing  again,   O  mild   September,   as   in   ancient  wonder-days; 
Bring  again  the  sylvan  wind-harp  and  the  oaten  meadow  lays ; 
For  from  Plato  and  from  Sappho,  yea  I  know  it,  I  am  sprung; 
Since  a  wild  wish  rushes  through  me  to  be  ever,  ever  young. 

Sing  the  friendship  of  the  fire  and  the  merry  star-lit  night, 
And  the  gentle  twilight  voices,  murmuring  in  the  tender  light. 
Sing  the  splendor  of  old  summer,  clover-field  and  honey-bee, 
Sweeter  far  than  isles  Elysian  fabled  in  a  nameless  sea. 
Sing  again !  For  as  I  ponder  by  the  chimney's  tender  gleam 
I  will  catch  the  flash  of  beauty  from  the  old  remembered  dream. 


70  SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

NIGHT  ON  THE  SACRAMENTO. 

All  the  sweet  voices  of  the  field  are  here — 
The  curlew-croon,  the  distant  honker-call, 

The  whistle  of  the  teal,  or  quaint  kildee ; 

And  lo,  the  south-wind  murmurs  rise  and  fall. 

'Twas  such  a  night  as  this  the  gentle  Ruth 

Rested  content  among  her  garnered  sheaves; 

And  thus  she  heard  on  Jordan's  bank,  forsooth, 
The  olives  wave  their  plumed  and  silver  leaves. 

'Twas  such  a  night  as  this  Diana  longed 

For  one  faint  glimpse  of  Cupid's  magic  smile. 

But  he,  blind  lad,  ne'er  guessed  the  thought  that  thronged 
Her  soul,  and  moody  stood  the  while. 

'Twas   such   a  night  as  this  the  nightingale 
Enraptured  high-born  Juliet's  eager  ear, 

While  love-lorn  Romeo  his  wondrous  tale 

Rehearsed  till  even  the  stars  were  mute  to  hear. 

Listen  again,  beloved ! — the  wild  dove's  note, 

The  far-off  northern  sand-crane's  lonely  cry, 

Yea,  now  to  my  keen  ear,  there  seems  to  float 
The  wondrous  olden  music  of  the  sky. 
* 

THE  WHITE  HERON. 

The  heron  calls  from  o'er  his  tule  fields, 
White  heron  gleaming  in  the  forenoon  sun ; 
The   well-remembered   stroke  of  wing  he  wields 
Flings  its  white  waves  of  radiance  one  by  one. 

He  stands  a  shining  lily  by  the  deep, 

Or   floats  a  gossamer  above  the  leas, 

Or  all  day  long  where  murky  waters  sleep 

He  moves   a  wraith   among  the  willow  trees. 

Musing  again  the  tears  in  silence  start, 
As  glistens'  his  rose-white  plumage  in  his  play ; 
Lo,  here  he  is  within  my  heart  of  heart — 
A  deathless  memory  of  that  elder  day. 


The  Keeper  of  the  Sheep 

A  Story  of  Pastoral  California 


Note:  John  A.  Wilkinson,  a  shepherd  of  the  Mt.  Hamilton 
hills,  came  west  in  1849,  leaving  behind  him  in  one  of  the 
Mississippi  states  a  young  woman  he  intended  to  bring  to  Cali 
fornia  as  his  wife,  after  he  had  later  made  a  fortune.  Death 
of  the  lady  put  an  end  to  the  romance  and  Wilkinson  became 
a  herder.  He  lived  alone  and  lost  to  society,  his  home  being 
in  a  deep  canyon,  in  the  hills  east  of  San  Jose.  With  infinite 
pains  he  taught  himself  to  play  on  a  Cappa  violin,  an  heirloom 
of  his  family,  and  grew  to  be  an  expert. 

His  lonely  life  was  broken  by  an  invitation  to  be  musician  for 
a  family-birthday-celebration  held  in  Hall's  Valley  on  the  grade 
to  Mt.  Hamilton.  It  was  a  combination  fandango,  feast,  and 
all-night  dance,  with  Wilkinson  as  the  violinist;  and  was  the 
occasion  of  the  celebration  of  the  birthday  of  the  oldest  woman 
of  the  circle,  a  great  grandmother.  This  woman  developed  a 
very  kindly  liking  for  the  player,  enabling  him  to  forget  his  old 
disappointment,  and  enter  a  new  sphere  of  content  and  joy. 

The  last  time  he  went  to  play  his  friend  had  passed  away,  and, 
to  his  great  disappointment  the  celebration  had  been  abandoned. 

Saint  Francis  Bay  is  calm  and  deep, 
And  to  the  east  the   foot-hills  sleep — 
Hills  that  are  wrapped  in  dreamy  mist, 
Which  folds  away  when  faintly  kissed 
By  the  roseate  red  of  the  morning  sun : 
And  when  the  shepherd's  task  is  done, 
And  the  flocks  lie  sheltered  beneath  the  trees, 
He  turns  to  scan  the  bay  and  sees 
The  gleaming  prow,  the  whitening  sail, 
And  far  away,  all  gray  and  pale, 
The  blue  Prieta  looming  high 
Into  the  realm  of  cloud  and  sky. 

And  many  a  herd  drank  deep  content 
That  elder  day;    and  Plenty  lent 
A  favoring  hand  to  him  who  led 
The  gentle  flock.     She  loving  spread 
Her  oaten  field  and  greening  hill, 
And  lined  them  with  the  singing  rill. 


72      SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


These  low  round  greening  mother-hills 
Seem  to  hark  back  to  Kedron  rills ; 
For  the  broad  columns  of  woolen-gray 
Cover  their  warm  slopes  far  and  away. 
Another  David  tunes  the  string 
At  the  warm  eve's  foregathering, 
The  flock  moves  gently,  one  by  one; 
And  sways  ahead  in  the  reddening  sun, 
Till  all  the  folding  well  is  done. 

Far   up  clear  Lara's  pebbly  stream, 

A  shepherd's  cabin  windows  gleam. 

There  grey  doves  chant  the  whole  day  long, 

And  join  at  eve  with  the  cricket's  song. 

The  wind  hums  in  the  live-oak  trees 

Its   ancient   sweet-sung  melodies. 

They  seem  to  echo  the  low  chords  deep 

Wrought  by  this  keeper  of  the  sheep : 

For  since  a  wandering  shepherd-boy 

The  violin  has  been  his  joy. 

Three  hundred  years  that  instrument 
Has  to  man's  heart  its  magic  sent: 
For  many  a  winter  it  has  to  him 
Lent  its  soft  tones  and  echoes  dim. 
Like  the  low  song  of  the  April  wind, 
Its  music  seemed  to  his  gentle  mind. 

This   night  to   lyric   song  he   turns, 
For  in  his  soul  a  strange  note  burns. 
He  plays  the  rippling  music  through 
That  makes  old  laughter  flash  as  new. 
Again  he  strikes  the  silvery  whirl 
That  captivates  the  boy  and  girl, 
Who,  eager,  join  the  country  dance; 
And  now,  in  the  coil  of  an  old  romance, 
He  strikes  an  unforgotten  tone, 
Recalling  faces  long  since  gone. 
And  there  the  figure  stands  once  more, 
Companion  of  many  a  year  before : 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS      73 


He   sees  her  wind-blown  stinlit  hair, 
And  he  counts  clearly  the  dimples  where 
The  rosy  red  and  lily  white 
Blend  like  the  dawn  with  full  daylight ; 
And  while  he  plays  the  vision  bright 
Dances  and  gleams,  an  airy  sprite. 

Sometimes  his  note  is  a  curlew-croon 
That  echoes  and  lilts  to  a  snow-white  moon 
In  the  wintry  wild  November; 
Sometimes  a  trill  from  a  sea-sand  dune 
Or  the  night-wind  rune  of  a  low  sweet  tune 
In  the  witching  mild   September. 

What  passions  lurk  in  his  lone  heart ! 

What  memories  through  his  fancy  dart, 

In  this  his  chosen  rendezvous, 

Lost  to  all  human  touch  and  view ! 

A  lonely  keeper  of  the  flock, 

Companion  of  the  tree  and  rock ! 

No  aim  save  duty  and  the  herd; 

No  one  with  whom  to  barter  a  word ! 

This  and  no  more  (so  the  great  God  wills) 

A  lonely  shepherd  of  the  hills ! 

And  who  is  he  that,  all  alone, 

Waits  on  these  hills  of  the  western  sun? 

A  grayed  and  wrinkled  man  is  he, 

With  years  in  full  the  three-score-ten, 

A  towering  pioneer  of  men, 

Rough-bearded,  strong,  erect  and  free, 

A  lover  of  stern  liberty; 

Yet  gentle  as  a  mother  when 

She  holds  her  offspring  to  her  breast, 

And  lulls  it  to  a  fire-light  rest. 

What  of  the  man !     He  looks  afar 
To  where  the  grain  fields  ripening  are, 
Where  the  broad  fig  leaves  fill  the  sky, 
And  the  rich  herds  of  cattle  lie. 


74  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  vision  haunts  him  and  a-list 

He  stands,  a  statue  in  a  dream, 

A  dreamer  held  as  by  a  gleam 

Of  light  from  some  old  Garden-tryst. 

It  is  a  picture  holds  him  so 

A  picture  from  the  silent  past : 

He  sees  the  bright  red  roses  glow, 

And  eyes  whose  magic  holds  him  fast. 

These  were  the  eyes  that  held  him  thralled 

A  younger  day,  as  youth  is  held. 

He  gave  to  her  an  eve  of  eld, 

The  love  that  never  is  recalled. 

Then  traveled  he  many  a  weary  day 
O'er  desert  land  and  mountain  trail, 
Where  were  wild  men  and   dangers  bale, 
And  Death  lurked  ever  for  his  prey. 

He  crossed  the  high   rim  of  the  world 
Where  nature-giants  caught  and  hurled 
The  fragments  of  the  breaking  earth, 
Where   cataclysms  have  their  birth. 
He   faced  the  lion  and  the  bear; 
He  wintered  in  the  snow-storms  where 
Dread  hunger  ruled  and  grim  despair. 
At  last  from  a  Sierran  height 
He  saw  his  blue  hills  rise  afar 
Blue  as  the  sea,  calm  as  a  star, 
Rise  over  a  valley  of  delight; 
Blue  as  the  sky  they  rose  in  air, 
Omen  of  fields  and  streamlets  fair, 
Where  greening  tree  and  spreading  flower 
Grew  as  a  rich  and  endless  dower. 

He  crossed  the  reedy  lakelets  deep 
That,  in  their  silent  reaches,  keep 
How  many  a  mirrored  shape  and  form 
Of  summer  cloud  or  autumn  storm. 

At  length  by  Lara's  ferny  stream 
He  sought  fulfillment  of  his  dream. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  75 

What  angel  of  Death,  what  fiend  of  fate 
Made   him,   at   length,   disconsolate, 
Crossed  him  in  love,  left  him  afar, 
Silent  and  lone  as  the  Northern  Star ! 

The  dim  twilight  is  now  begun; 

The  sheep  were  folded  at  set  of  sun ; 

And  by  the  glowing  oak-log  fire, 

Whose  flames  rise  ever  high  and  higher, 

The  music  flows  as  from  a  lyre : 

At  each  sweep  of  the  violin, 

He  seems  to  conjure  the  might-have-been. 

Now   he  recounts  with  quiet  joy 
His  merry  life  as  a  farmer-boy. 
He  trolls  the  song  as  if  entranced 
While  in  his  eyes  queer  sparklets  danced: 
Then  he  mused  on  life  and  the  world  to  be  ; 
He  thought  of  love  and  the  good  true  past; 
He  dreamed  of  isles  in  the  wondrous  sea; 
And  his  words  in  variant  song  were  cast: 
"The  elk  were  myriad,  deer  like  sheep, 
That  afternoon  we  climbed  the  trail 
We  passed  the  ridges  and  canyons  deep, 
And  heard  the  whir  of  a  thousand  quail. 

"And  I  pitched  my  tent,  and  cleared  my  spring; 
And  my  fire  sent  incense  to  the  skies. 
The  song-sparrow  came  to  my  bough  to  sing} — 
'An  Eden !'  you  say.     It  was  Paradise. 

"The  figs  were  ripe,  the  red  roses  double ; 

The  fields  were  a  carpet  of  golden  stubble ; 

The  white  geese  drowsed  in  the  sedgy  pool; 

The  sleek   fat  kine  in  a  wavy  line 

Down  the  long  path  sniffed  the  breezes  cool. 

Over  the  green  hills  and  far  away 

The  sky  was  a-blaze  with  the  last  of  day; 

The  oak  trees  trailed  in  the  sweet  south  wind; 

The  ricks  with  odorous  hay  were  lined. 

I  sat  and  mused  for  a  dreamy  hour 


76      SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Where   the   porch   was   green   with   the   passion-flower, 
And  gazed  where  far-off  towers  glow 
Like   minarets  of  eternal  snow." 

His  song  was  touched  with  many  a  rune, 
And   lit  with  many  an  airy  dream; 
And  I  gently  said :    "Kind  friend,  a  boon ; 
Tell  me  what  means  this  cherished  theme !" 

His  eye  flashed  fire,  his  gaze  was  stern, 
His  pale  cheek  flushed,  his  white  hand  shook, 
And  with  words  that  ne'er  lighted  a  scroll  or  Book, 
His  tale  began  to  breathe  and  burn: 

"Ah  me!  It  seems  so  long  ago; 
So  long  it  surely  was  Eden-time : 
Again  I  hear  the  rain-wind  blow, 
And  wild  geese  chant  September  rhyme. 

"Oh  land  of   the  dream-gray  autumn  clime, 

Field  of  the  lark  and  the  honey-bee, 

Hills  of  the  sun,  the  happy  prime! 

Ever,   forever,   I   turn  to  thee ! 

Oh  shadowy  land  of  the  rock-bound  hill, 

Where  the  dear  first-hearts  wait  my  coming  again 

Oh  heart  of  my  heart,  be  silent,  be  still ; 

And  know  that  a  first  love  never  is  vain ! 

"Yes,  tell  all  your  late  loves  over  and  o'er 
And  set  them  to  story  and  sing  them  sublime 
And  smile  as  you  picture  them  more  and  more; 
But  a  first  love, — bury  it  deep  with  time ! 

"No  mortal  ever  a   single  word 
Of  this  my  first  young  love  has  heard; 
And  what  is  this  that  is  now  averred? — 
This  phantom  that  so  your  heart  has  strirred ! 

"Never  the  grave  with  its  secret  true, 
Would  open  to  tell  this  secret  to  you ; 
And  now  you  say,  in  a  sunny  vale, 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  77 

So  far  the  deer  scarce  leads  with  his  trail, — 
You  say  that  you  found  her,  an  elf  by  the  stream, 
You  say  that  fulfillment  awaits  my  old  dream?" 

I  smiled  as  I  saw  his  new  hope  leap, 

And  the  flush  of  youth  to  his  countenance  creep. 

Soft  came  the  starlight  over  the  hills, 

Those  silent  hills  green-rounded  and  seamed, 

And  shapen  and  moulded  and  scarred  and  reamed 

By  the  rains  and  the  springs  and  the  reedy  rills, 

That  have  sung  in  the  infinite  years  of  the  past; — 

Out  of  the  silent  and  fathomless  vast, 

From  the  Pleiades'  untouched  zone  it  fell. 

It  lightened  the  gloom  of  the  darkening  earth, 

Till  the  oaken  leaves  sang  a  sweet  new  birth 

It  entered  and  lightened  the  dark  well 

Of  my  own  rough  heart ;    and  cast  its  spell 

Like  a  magic  web  o'er  the  player's  soul, 

And  he  grew  warm  and  human  and  whole ; 

And  I  listened  there  in  God's  light  dim, 

As  the  gentle  revealment  came  to  him : 

"Come,  give  us  your  song,"  the  message   said. 
'Twas  a  voice  of  life,  not  of  the  dead, 
And  to  him  who  moaned  of  the  yesterday, 
Which  was  lost,  as  he  thought,  forever  and  aye, 
It  came  like  a  Word  from  a  pilgrim's  heaven, 
Leavening  his  life  with  a  rich  new  leaven. 

"Go,"  it  s:aid,   "when  the  grapes  are  red 

When  the  barley  is  sheaved,  and  clouds   overhead 

Scurry  like  gossamers   over  the  blue, 

When  the  heart  is  light  then  love  is  true. 

"For  the  people  are  sorrowful,  need  your  song; 
They  are  waiting  for  you  and  have  waited  long." 
And   so   it  happened  this  keeper  of   sheep 
Came  from  the  shades  of  his  valley  deep 
Climbed  the  hill  a-slope  to  the  vernal  south, 


78      SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Up  where  the  fields  are  a-silver  with  oats, 
Where  the  wild  doves  burnish  their  olive  coats, 
And  down  where  the  filaree  stanches  the  drouth 
A-threat  when  November  winds  are  cold : 
He  threaded  the  sage  and  chaparral  wold; 
He  cast  to  the  winds  his  sorrowings  old. 

For  here  in  the  shade  of  the  trellised  grape, 

Waits  many  a  don  in  his  silver  cape 

Waits  many  a  donna  to  tinkle  the  bells 

Soon  as  the  wild   dance-music  swells : 

"Lo  here,"    said  one,    "comes  the  wandering  bard 

He  brings  us  a  song,  and  he  plays  at  a  word." 

"Then  strike    (Oh  joy!)   on  the  living  string: 
Set  all  the  tense  nerves  a-thrill  and  a-wing! 
The  time  is  past  for  the  touch  of  grief; 
Let  the  lilting  note  give  the  heart  relief; 
Conjure,    O   stranger,   the   melody, 
Sweet  as  the  air,  wild  as  the  sea!" 

High  on  the  porch  the  lantern  swung: 

Above  the  gate  where  the  rose-tree  hung 

Echoed  and  clanged  the  candolin : 

Rattled  and  cracked  the  pistol-shot 

And  the  drum  and  the  cymbal  were  not  forgot, 

And  many  a  dancer  entered  in, 

A  celebrant  of  that  yearly  feast, 

Where  the  Great-Dame's  cousins,  the  greatest  and  least 

Joined  in  the  rolicsome  afternoon, 

Light  as  fays  in  the  bright  white  moon. 

With  laughing  old  wrinkles  his  face  was  seamed 
As  he  touched  the  note  in  a  sweet  refrain: 
This  shepherd  once  more  was  himself  again. 
His  cheeks  were  flushed,  his  keen  eyes  beamed. 
With  a  lightness  born  of  his  youth  they  gleamed. 
He  sounded  the  high  call  strain  on  strain, 
And  every  nerve  was  alive  in  his  brain. 
Like  a  river  the  old  tunes  skurried  and  streamed 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  79 

Rich  in  sheep  and  cattle  was  she; 
And  golden  wheat  and  the  honey  bee. 
The  fig  and  the  olive  gave  her  shade, 
And  the  trailing  grape  rare  comfort  made. 
The  rich  filaree  in  her  meadows  grew 
And  her  lilies  gleamed  in  the  whitest  hue. 
'Twas  here  they  came  a  love  to  pay 
Like  a  tribute  for  some  ancestral  shrine, 
With  firstling  and  fruit  and  blossomy  spray, 
To  the  great  fore-foundress  of  the  line. 

There  are  the  walls  of  sun-dried  brick 

Low-spreading  walls  with   roof  antique, 

With  arches  Castilian  and  covered  thick 

With  the  sweeping  green  of  the  murmuring  vine ; 

There  the  locust  is  white  in  the  clear  sunshine, 

There,  the  shade  of  the  oak  where  the  children  played 

And  the  cool  wide  porch  for  the  promenade, 

And  the  rich  Autumnal  birthday  feast, 

Where  the  kith  and  kin  from  the  great  to  the  least 

Came  in  the  calm  of  the  gentle  September 

When  the  clouds  were  gray  like  the  graying  ember. 

Under  the  trellis  the  feast  was  laid ; 

And  many  the  smile  on  the  happy  face  played 

That  soft  Indian  summery  afternoon ; 

There  was  the  purple-rich  grape  and  prune; 

The   roasted   hare   and   the  winged  brood, 

Drenched  with  the  amber  olive  flood. 

The  fattest  fatling  from  the  white  clover 

Turned  in  the  barbecue  over  and  over ; 

Tortillas,  tamales,  the  hot  enchilade, 

With  nectars  as  juicy  as  if  for  a  god: 

The  rich  raviola,  the  chili  con  earn ; 

The  tuna  full-ripe  from  the  wild  cactus-thorn. 

There  were  nuts  the  fleecy  gray  squirrel  hoards 

Loaded  the   polished   redwood  boards. 

And    steaming   cups   with   yellow   cream, 

With  cress  from  the  winding  meadow  stream — 

Hark!!     The  low  strains  of  the  violin 

Signal  anew  the  dance  to  begin ! 


80  SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Red-lipped   Senoritas — they  swing  in  a  whirl 

And  the  silks  and   sashes   furl   after   furl 

Rustle  and  curl  in  the  dreamy  maze 

And  oddly  sweet  in  magical  ways 

The  smooth  low-murmuring  music  plays 

And  lover  and  maid  are  carried  quite 

To  the  shadowy  valley  of  delight. 

The  flashing  eye-gleam  quick  returns, 

And  the  dancer  with  strange  new  ardor  burns : 

And  then  the  minstrel  touches  a  string 

That  beckons  unto  the  mystic  ring 

Of   that    mysterious    spirit-strain 

Which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  heard  when 

Beloved  King  Arthur  sailed  afar 

Into  the  reddening  sunrise  bar. 

The  dance  was  stilled  and  yet  the  bard 

Held  to  the  magic  of  that  chord. 

The  dancers  mused  and  stood  at  gaze 

Awed  with  the  strange  seraphic  blaze 

Of  that  wild-shrilling  bardic  strain 

Which  faded,  wavered  and  echoed  again 

To  that  mild  melody  which   croons 

To  lovers  under   September  moons. 

Then  Juanna  and  Juan  jigged  the  weird  rigadoon 

To  the  beat  of  a  queer  and  untamable  tune; 

And  Jose  and  Julie  danced  over  and  o'er 

The  fandango  wild  till  the  hard  oaken  floor 

Rattled  and  hummed  to  dervish  time 

That  told  of  love  and  a  passion  prime. 

Then  came  the  light  chords  again  like  a  boon 

And  all  night  long,  to  the  low  sweet  tune. 

Quivered  the  floor  to  rhythmic  feet; 

But  when  Dawn  came  on  her  golden  street 

Sowing  her   orient   rubies   of  light, 

Nothing  was   there   heard   save   the   swallow's   flight 

The  music  divine  was  an  echo  lost, 

And  one  more  feast  was  a  shattered  ghost. 

Thus  many  a  year  the  shepherd  played 
At  the  Great-Dame's  dance  and  serenade. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS      81 

How  the  maidens  sighed  when  high  the  note 
Ran  like  a  strain  from  the  field-lark's  throat ! 
Or  when  at  the  Feast  he  gentlier  sung 
Of  time  and  joyous  love  among 
The  happy  fields  of  prairie  corn 
When  life  to  him  was  a  merry  morn ! 

The  months  and  the  years  now  glided  by, 

And  over  the  hills  where  the  oats  grow  high, 

Trailed  the  sheep  and  the  minstrel  old 

Brought  them  at  evening  to  the  fold. 

Again   at  morn  he  wandered   forth, 

And  led  his  charge  to  the  high  wild  north, 

Or  back  again  to  the  lily-south 

Where   filaree   rich   lined   the   streamlet's   mouth. 

And  when  he  sat  by  the  fire  and  played 

The  strings  echoed  lightly  the  serenade: 

And  stately  he  threw  off  the  country  dance, 

Or  the  measure  stepped  in  a  Southern  manse: 

Or  he  rested  at  noon  and  thrummed  at  ease 

The  old-remembered  melodies: 

Or  over  the  strings  the  swift  bow  flies 

In  a  song  for  honor  that  never  dies. 

No  more  for  him  the   palsied  hand ! — 
That  harsh  ill-omen  of  failing  years : 
No  more  the  sorrowing  night  of.  tears ! 
For  every  demon  of  ill  he  banned. 

He  was  of  them  of  whom  it  is  said: 

"Today  the  great  joy  enters  his  heart; 

Of  smiling  fields  he  becomes  a  part, 

And  a  new  life  is  his  in  the  old  one's  stead." 

The  gray  dove  homed  in  his  sugar-corn, 

The  gentle  quail  crowed  in  his  rose-tree  at  morn; 

He  learned  the  way  of  the  brooklet  trout, 

And  where  the  lark  brings  her  nestlings  out: 

The   linnet   built  on   his   window-sill, 

And  the  road-runner  crooned  on  his  oaty  hill: 

He  knew  the  trails  the  shy  rabbit  made : 


82      SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Where  the   fawn  lay  hid  in  the  chaparral   shade. 
The  cricket  sang  on  his  hearth  at  eve: 
He  learned  to  dream  and  hope  and  believe, 
Each  day  was  a  boon  to  his  still  soul  sent; 
For  deep  in  his  heart  was  divine  content: 
There  was  no  room  for  the  harsh  and  the  drear, 
For  the  gentle  spirit  of  Christ  was  here. 

And  so  in  ecstasy  new  he  made 

A  paean  of  gladness   fresh  and  clear 

A  song  of  living,  high  with  cheer; 

And  deep  and  strong  he  sang  and  played : 

"Joy!     Joy!     Infinite  joy! 
Wild  as  the  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  boy; 
Clean  as  the  soul  of  the  laughing  breeze; 
Pure  as  the  heart  of  the  dryad  trees! 

"The  sky  is  mine,  the  earth  is  mine, 
The  air  and  the  sea  and  all  that  is; 
And  when  I  shall  pass  I  shall  walk  divine 
In  ways  more  starry  fair  than  this ! 

"I  say  I  have  lived  in  a  joyous  world; 
Where  every  loving  dream  comes  true; 
With  comfort  and  plenty  around  me  curled; 
Where  every  moment  is  fresh  and  new. 

"It's  great!— this  life  on  the  hills  of  Time,— 
To  follow  the  gleam  and  still  endure, 
To  strive  in  joy  for  the  High  Sublime, 
And  know  that  the  way  of  love  is  sure." 

So  year  by  year  at  the  autumn  feast 
The  joy  and  the  friendly  love  increased; 
And  all  because  of  the  music  of  him 
Who  was  touched  by  the  lyric  seraphim! 

All  the  winter  long,  on  northern  hills, 
The  flock  was  fed  nigh  upland  rillis, 
And  when  at  night  the  winter  wind 
Shrilled  by  the  cabin  eaves  and  whined 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS      83 

Around  the   flues,   safe  by  the  fire 
The  bard  was  housed,  while  ever  nigher 
The  storm-wind  roared.     In  spring  the  grass 
Still  blossomed  rich  in  the  northern  pass; 
And  still  the  sheep  on  upland  lawns 
All   summer  through   fed   with  the   fawns, 
That  sleek  in  quiet  shelters  born, 
Heard  all  unscared  the  shepherd's  horn. 

But  when  the  time  for  the  birthday  feast 

Came  and  the  summer  bay-winds  ceased, 

Leaving  for  weeks  in  quiet  air 

The  autumn  haze,  and  the  hill-top  bare 

Wore  like  a  veil  September  mist, 

A  longing  he  could  not  resist 

Stole  to  the  vagrant  shepherd's  heart. 

Soon  was  he  ready  to  depart; 

And  long  ere  the  sun  had  raised  his  head 

The  swift   foot  took  the   canyon  bed. 

It  was  high  noon  before  there  gleamed 

Those   low   gray   walls  of  which   he  dreamed. 

Swift  beat  his  heart,  his   forehead  burned. 

He  pictured  how,  a  friend   returned, 

The  kindly   folk  would   welcome  him; 

But  far  on  the  hills  the  skies  grew  dim, 

And  vague  misgivings   filled  his  brain; 

For  winding  up  the  distant  grade, 

He  saw  a  long  procession  fade. 

The  high  black  hearse  with   feathery  plume 

Sank  o'er  the  hill  in  silent  gloom. 

With   hurried   steps   and   eye   a-gaze, 

He   rushed   along  in    sore  amaze 

To  where  he  played  the  birthday  song. 

About  the   walls   he   wandered   long; 

Heard   from   strange   lips  the  gentle  tale, 

(Sad  as  November's  stormy  wail) 

How  the  sweet  rest  had  glided  in 

To  the  tired  eye,  and  all  the  din 

And   sorrow  and  joy  of  those  long  years, 


84      SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ninety  and  more,  and  all  the  fears, 

Forgotten,  sped  to  the  nevermore ; 

Till  heavy  grief  upon  him  bore. 

But  the  dread  spell  came  not  for  long 

For  straight  his  sorrow  turned  unto  song. 

Soft  o'er  the  trees  the  music  rang; 

Yet  loving  was  the  lay  he  sang: 

"Bring  roses  and  wreaths  of  verdant  balm, 
That  grow  in  deep  canyons  soothed  with  calm ; 
And  lay  them  to  the  memory 
Of  her  who  fares  unto  the  Isles  of  Palm! 

"Bear  oak-leaves  lade  with  honey-dew, 

And  fragrances  from  quiet  rue ; 

Such  essences  as  tenderly 

Drift  from  those  shadowy  Isles  afar  and  new ! 

"Weave  magic  strands  of  elfin  dream, 

Such  as  are  born  on  a  summery  stream 

To  be  her  guide  unto  that  sea 

Where  sweet  hopes  flash  in  many  a  starry  gleam ! 

"Burn  incense  thick  and  lethe-bearing 
With  lily-perfume  rich  and   spirit-snaring, 
To  give  her  that  serenity 
Immortals  wear  in  their  divine  way-faring! 

"Sing  lyrics  with  the  honeyed  tongue 
Such  as  are  murmured  forest  isles  among ! 
So  shall  she  pass  in  ecstasy — 
So  shall  she  go  to  be  forever  young!" 

Back  o'er  the  trail  to  the  high  divide 
Where  the  clouds   like   bannery  whirlwinds   ride, 
The  minstrel  toiled   to  his   sheltered  fold, 
Haunted  by  dreams  as  the  prophet  old, — 
Sang  to  the  sky  till  the  Great  Night  fell,— 
He  had  done  his  part  and  all  was  well ! 


SIERRAN   PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  85 

Some  say  the  shepherd  still  plays  and  sings 

And  keeps  his  lonely  vigil  true, 

That  his  ancient  music  still  leaps  and  wings 

At  evening  dusk  and  morning  dew, 

That  proudly  he  stands  by  the  open  wold, 

A  faithful  keeper,  white  and  old. 

And  others  listening  at  set  of  the  sun 
Still  hear  the  music  when  folding  is  done 
But  aver  it  the  moan  of  the  turtle-dove,  — 
A  gentle  song  of  mating  love. 
And  others  hear  in  the  quail's  wild  notes, 
Or  the  silvery  rustle  of  blowing  oats, 
Or  the  sharp  high  pipe  of  the  lark-refrain, 
The  melting  notes  of  his  lyric  strain. 

And  when  I  hark  to  the  sweet  south  wind, 
As  it  sings'  at  my  eaves,  and  rain  is  kind, 
I  too  hear  its  melody  drifting  in,  — 
The  haunting  air  of  his  violin. 


CADDIE  KENT. 

You  name  her,  and  my  mind  runs  back 
Into  a  happy  childhood  dream  : 
An  old  south  porch,  and  almond  trees, 
Tall  sycamore  beside  a  stream. 

You  name  her,  and  her  fair  morn  moves 
Under   that  ancient   sycamore 
And  dark-lit  eyes,  and  ebon-hair 
Gleam   in  the   misty   Nevermore. 

Ah,  strew  your  leaves',  old  sycamore 
By    murky   tule-lake    and    stream! 
And  blue-bells  shroud  in  perfume  dust 
All  that  is  left  of  that  old  dream; 

For  mind  cannot   forever  hold 

The  sweet  dim  pictures  of  the  past  ; 

And   the  heart   would   burst,   and   the   brain    would 

burn, 
Could  we  not  turn  from  them  at  last  ! 


86      SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  WILD  HONKER. 

Well  I  remember  how  one  starry  morn 

Fair  by  the  reedy  lake 

Hid  in  the  brake 

I  heard  the  wild  grey  honker  blow  his  merry  horn, 

Circling  in  many  a  ring  above  the  emerald  field 

And,  all   concealed, 

I  saw  him  glide  down  to  the  growing  grain, 

And   pipe  his  music  to  his   shining  host, 

That  filled  contented  all  the  wheaten  coast 

Till  endless  seemed  the  whirling  feathery  train 

Then  my  wild  pulse  beat  in  an  eager  joy, 

Beat  the  fierce  music  of  a  fiery  boy. 


REINCARNATION. 

O,  when  I  come  again  may  it  be  spring ! 
That  I  may  walk  again  through  poppy  bloom. 
And  catch  the  glint  of  sunlight  brightening 
The  sylph-like  heron's  spotless  lily-plume; 

That  I  may  watch  the  sunset  paint  the  hills 

With  purple,  catch  the  odor  from  the  lawn 

Laden  with  clover-hay;     or  hear  the  rills 

That  play  among  the  meadow-grass ;  or,  at  the  dawn, 

Walk  knee-deep   through  the   flowering  April  oats ; 
Or  linger  silent  by  the  leafy  groves, 
Watching  the  gros-beaks  in  their  shiny  coats 
Murmur  in  fairy  bowers  their  elfin  loves. 

And  when  I  come  again  I  want  to  see, 
(Wreathed,  as  it  once  was  wont,  in  witching  smiles) 
Your  matchless  face, — the  book  of  minstrelsy 
(Fair  magic)  in  your  hand;    and  down  the  aisles 

Of  tule-grass,  to  wander  far  away 
In  timeless  joy,  to  where  the  crickets  hum 
Their  sweet  high  music  to  declining  day. 
Ah !    let  it  be  in  spring-time  when  I  come ! 


COMMENT  ON  THE  BLAND  POEMS. 


(Extracts  from  Letters  and  Reviews.) 


In  Flight  Across  Oregon, 

May  18,  1921. 

I  have  read  Henry  Meade  Eland's  poem  on  Yos:emite 
with  keen  interest.  It  contains  some  lines  that  have  a 
true  beauty;  other  lines  that  are  marches  of  mystic 
music.  It  is  the  most  elaborate  poem  ever  written  upon 
the  marvelous  valley.  EDWIN  MARKHAM. 


I  have  reread  with  pleasure  your  lines  on  "Sierran  Pan." 
You  have  remembered  what  so  many  people  forget,  that  Pan 
only  can  be  seen  out  of  doors'  in  a  real  landscape.  The  concrete 
is  of  the  essence  of  poetry. — Henry  van  Dyke. 

Your  poetry  is  full  of  the  spirit  of  Nature. 

— William  Butler  Yeats. 

It  ("Love's  Purpose")  is  not  only  poetry,  it  is  truth. 

— Joaquin  Miller. 

And  when  the  witchery  of  language  has  been  considered 
the  final  test  of  the  poet  is  to  be  found  in  a  strong-winged 
imagination. — The  San  Jose  Times. 

Henry    Meade    Bland,    joints    Joaquin    Miller,    the    one,    the 
bard  of  the  Sierras,  the  other,  the  poet  of  Mount  Hamilton. 
— Gilbert  Weigle  in  the  Examiner. 

The  poet  is  a  Californian.  As  such  he  paints  a  vivid  picture 
of  his  State,  from  the  snow  banners  of  Sierra,  past  old  ranchos, 
down  through  the  meadows  and  orchards  to  the  sands  of  the 
Pacific. — The  St  Louis  Republic. 

Many  of  the  poems  will  appeal  powerfully  to  those  who  are 
fond  of  nature. — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


SIERRAN  PAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Professor  Bland  has  the  singing  spirit,  and  often  paints  a 
word-picture  of  wistful  beauty. — Clarence  Urmy. 

Pleasing,   quieting   and    melodious. — Current  Literature. 

The  fates  have  been  kind  in  mapping  out  a  life  for  this  odd 
genius,  that  has  brought  him  into  touch  with  humanity,  growing 
humanity,  for  besides  Poet  and  Bluebird  Philosopher  he  is  a 
Teacher. 

— Agnes  Johnson  Mechfessel  in  "The  Overland  Monthly." 

The  poem  ("In  Yosemite")  contains  lines  and  passages 
possessing  the  true  poetic  glamor. — Edwin  Markham. 

There  is  music  in  these  verses  and  withal  a  touch  of  senti 
ment  that  causes  them  to  linger  with  the  reader  and  keep  ring 
ing  in  his  ears  long  after  he  has  closed  the  book. 

— Herbert  Bashford  in  Mercury  Herald. 

In  his  poetry  he  finds  his  greatest  delight.  And  it  is  there 
that  former  pupils  like  to  catch  fresh  glimpses  of  the  character 
they  so  love  and  revere. 

— Myrtle   B.   Akin  in.  "The   Overland  Monthly." 

This  poem  ("The  Wind  Among  the  Eaves")  has  art  in  every 
line.  Such  a  poem  is  very  rare. — John  Vance  Cheney. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

After    the    Earthquake    67 

A  Ballad  of  Peace  48 

After  Reading  "The  Iron  Heel"  33 

After   Reading  Edwin  Markham's   Hoe-Poem    26 

Among  the   Fields    64 

Annie   Embee    37 

A    Remembrance    37 

At    Montalvo    49 

Autumn    Reverie    67 

Birds    64 

Blue-Bell,   The    l 19 

By   the    Sacramento    30 

Caddie   Kent    85 

Canim    33 

Christmas  Memory,  A   21 

Columbus    42 

Condor,  The    15 

Contra   Costa    50 

Cousin   George's   Philosophy    27 

Day  on   Summer  Seas,  A    55-56 

Death  of  Blanche,  The 47 

Divine  in  Nature,  The   9 

Divine    Rh^hm    47 

Elemental   Beauty   31 

Elm  Blossoms   '. 26 

Fate  of  the  Titanic,  The  57 

For  a  Public   School   Blackboard   44 

From  Caterpillar  to  Chrysalis    62 

From  the  Spanish   39 

Fulfillment      60 

Garden  of  Memory,  The    34 

Gift,   The    39 

Graduation     44 

Hermod's   Ride  on   Slepnir    46 

Hills  of  Ix)ng  Ago,  The  63 


CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

Hope    35 

Hunting  Song    62 

In  a  Sierra  Forest   27 

In  Camp  at  Tahoe  30 

Independence     43 

Inspiration 60 

Inspiration's    Gift    41 

In  War  Time   35 

In   Yosemite    10 

Jolly  Good  Friendship,  A  32 

June    20 

Keeper  of  the  Sheep,  The   71-85 

Kindness     41 

Life    66 

Lincoln    41 

Linnet,  The   24 

Living    40 

Loss    52 

Love     58 

Love's    Purpose    19 

Lupines  on  Mt.   Hamilton   39 

Man  of  the  Trail,  The   17 

Meadow-Lark,  The   19 

Memory     42 

Mission  San  Antonio   59 

Morning    47 

Mother     25 

Night  on  the  Mesa  31 

Night  on  the   Sacramento   70 

Nirvana     29 

North  Wind,  The   18 

Old  Adobe  Building,  An   59 

On  Berkeley  Hills    52 

On  the  Life-Trail   61 

Poppy,  The   18 

Quest  for  the  Seven  Cities,  The  54 

Rain   Prayer    65 


CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

Reconciliation      61 

Reincarnation    86 

Resurgam     28 

Sailing  Together 53 

San   Diego-by-the-Sea    50 

September     65 

Shakespeare     28 

Sierra  Morning,  A   23 

Sierran    Pan    9 

Sir  Henry  Hudson   51 

Song  of  the  Autumn   66 

Song  of  Joy,  A   20 

Song  of  September,  A  68-69 

Song  of  the  Olden  Time 24 

Sonnet,   The    29 

Steadfast    43 

Sunrise  Over  the  Sierras   25 

Tavern,   The    60 

Thanksgiving    49 

Thoughts    40 

To  Dorothea  J 29 

To  My  Students 43 

To   the   Fighter    46 

To  the  Merced  River  23 

To  the  White  Honker  Goose   63 

Truce,  The    45 

Two  Invocations    38 

Unanswerable,  The   58 

Unto  the  Hills    26 

Voices,  The   40 

Waiting   at   Twilight    39 

White  Heron,  The    70 

Who?     30 

Wild  Honker,  The   86 

Wind  Among  the  Eaves,  The  16 

Wind  Blows  Eastward,  The  36 

Work  Completed,   1914    27 


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